


Long and Lost

by teaDragon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, mentions of depression/grief/mourning, there may be an actual reason for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin, Crown Prince of Erebor, has always been cursed with a poor sense of direction. Under the stone of his home he had no trouble finding his way around, but the moment he stepped outside he was lost. Though concerning, nothing ever came of his difficulties. Until one day something did.</p><p>Bilbo only wants to know what a strange dwarf is doing in the Shire, and why he thinks he's in the Blue Mountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I haven't abandoned my other fics, but this plot bunny demanded to be written, so here we are.

It wasn’t uncommon in Erebor for a dwarf to jest of the crown Prince’s poor sense of direction. While in the mountain, Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror knew his way better than any. Yet it was when he ventured outside of the stone walls of his home that the problems started. 

When Thorin was only a small child of no more than twenty years he had gotten terribly lost in the small forest growing on the slopes of the mountain. Being small as he was, he had wandered aimlessly, claiming later when the guards had finally tracked him down that he had not been able to see the lonely mountain for the trees. That could have been waved off easily enough, but when the prince ended up halfway to Mirkwood on a visit to Laketown, and somehow managed to completely miss Dale altogether, it became apparent there was perhaps something more going on. 

Yet it was baffling. Thorin’s stone sense was stronger than most. He could find his way through Erebor blindfolded, much to the delight of his siblings who’d often demand he chase them in such a way. But as soon as he stepped foot outside he was as lost as an elf in a mine. One occasion had Thorin _misplacing_ the great gates of Erebor itself, though he had just exited the mountain from them not five minutes prior, and ended up walking all the way around entire mountain until he came across them again from the opposite side.

Thrain and his queen Freida had contacted healer after healer to see if there was any explanation for their eldest child’s… _difficulty_ , concerned that someone with ill intentions could use it to harm the prince. But no matter who looked him over, there was nothing anyone could point to as the cause of Thorin’s disorientation. Some suggested too many vegetables (the prince actually having a strange fondness for tomatoes) while some said it was the shape of his feet or the curve of his nose. One even went so far as to say it was an omen of dark times. 

A Lore Keeper suggested that Thorn may be experiencing the call of his One. For a dwarf to have such a strong bond with their One as to physically feel its pull was rare indeed, though not unheard of. It was unlikely, however, as Thorin had never had any troubles inside the mountain where other dwarves tended to be, and on visits to the Blue Mountains and other dwarven dwellings he still could get turned around once outside, and never felt such disorientation within their walls.

No more informed than they had been before, the King and Queen simply decided to carry on as they had been, making sure Thorin was familiar with maps and compasses and even star reading if it would help him find his way. (They had considered asking the cooks to ban all tomatoes from their son, but simply hadn’t the heart to.)

When asked, Thorin would say that he _was_ following his stone sense, only that it seemed to work differently outside of the mountain than within it. 

Though concerned, it was easy enough for the royal family to make sure that the crown prince was always accompanied by a guard when he left the mountain, and once he had grown into a fearsome figure, Dwalin son of Fundin took this duty to heart. Being both cousin and close friend of Thorin, as well as a skilled warrior in his own right, it was no hardship for Dwalin to act as Thorin’s constant shadow, discreetly nudging him in the right direction when the prince would have turned north rather than south.

Years and decades passed and nothing ill came of Thorin’s problem. Those who had been on patrol or scouting missions with the prince would often joke about his frequent disorientation, but there was no malice behind it for Thorin was a well liked and dedicated dwarf, if not a bit silent and brooding. 

It was only many years later on a diplomatic visit to the Blue Mountains that any real trouble would come of the prince’s unfortunate lack of direction.

 

Xxx

 

The ambush had been quick but fierce, leaving the group of dwarves scattered through the woods in their attempts to track the orcs as they fled. There were no casualties, though Dwalin had been injured defending Thorin from an arrow, the prince dashing off after the orc in a rage when his friend went down.

They’d found the orc, a mile or so away from where the fight had started, very dead.

But they hadn’t found the prince. 

As soon as his injury had been hastily seen to, Dwalin set out immediately after his prince, sending the rest of the group back to the Blue Mountains for more scouts. 

For as amusing as Thorin’s poor sense of direction could be, it was also dangerous. He could very well be injured or ambushed by more orcs all while heading in the absolute wrong direction and far from any help.

 

Xxx

 

It had taken twenty minutes for Thorin to realize that he may have traveled a bit further away from his group than he had intended to. After he’d slain the orc he’d taken stock of himself, finding only a few minor cuts that were hardly dangerous. Then he’d noticed he could not hear anyone else nearby at all, not orc nor dwarf. He’d set off back to the others hastily, stomach growling at the thought of the great tables no doubt laid heavily in feast for their arrival back in the Blue Mountains.

An hour later had him finally admitting to himself that he had no idea where he was. He scowled, kicking irritably at a leafy plant. Of course he would get lost in a forest. _Again_. Dwalin would never let him hear the end of it.

Provided that Dwalin was alright. 

The dwarf slowed in his gait, thinking of the arrow coming out of nowhere and his friend pushing him out of the way only to be hit in his place. He gritted his teeth. Dwalin would be _fine_. Of course he would be. He’d lived through much deadlier wounds before. This was barely even a scratch to the guard dwarf. No doubt he’d be tracking him down, ready to scold him for running off so far from the others.

His chest gave a little tug. Looking down at it with a frown, Thorin rubbed at the spot. It was strange. All his life his stone sense had been a comfort under stone, and yet whenever he was outside it did…this. Whatever this was. Tug him around in strange directions that didn’t seem to lead anywhere.

Squinting up at the sky he tried to tell the time of day and his direction from the sun as he’d been taught to do. Overhead was a large mess of leaves and branches that he couldn’t make sense of at all. Foot catching suddenly on a root, he stumbled, flailing wildly to halt his fall. Catching his breath he scowled, first at the root and then at the thick branches and leaves above him.

No use in that.

Intuitively, he felt that if he continued in _this_ direction (whichever direction it was) that would be…good. It felt right somehow. And any dwarf and warrior knew that a keenly honed intuition could be all that kept your head attached to your shoulders. So he listened to his now and followed it.

Even when it lead him on a winding path downhill instead of back up the mountain. 

Even when the trees slowly began to thin, and he eventually found himself in a large flat plain with no mountain in sight at all.

Even when night had fallen and his stomach rumbled loudly, the cuts on his arm beginning to throb as he wadded through a wide field lit by the moon.

…

 

Fuck.

 

Xxx

 

The sun was shining down brightly on the waving fields of wheat turning them into a beautiful glowing gold, the air buzzing faintly with the sound of crickets and bumblebees. Bilbo hitched his pack higher on his back and trailed a hand through the long stalks happily, breathing deeply in the fresh breeze from the west. Perhaps it had even come down from the distant mountains, or from the harbor leading out to the vast sea.

He had spent the last two days in Needlehole, staying in a small inn and exploring what sights the town had to offer. It was a walking holiday really, only about a day’s travel from Hobbiton. But to the hobbit it was as grand an adventure as he’d had in a long while.

Yes, he thought to himself, feeling the wind rustle his curls. He had made the right decision to go on this little trip. He’d always meant to travel, and he owed it to his mother to cross the borders of the Shire at least once. And with his father in mind he was being practical and starting slow, trying to gain back the walking strength in his legs he used to have and rebuild his confidence in traveling alone.

Goodness knows how little he had ventured out of his hole in the last year or so. 

It had not been an easy time for him. Staying in bed well past teatime. Barely bothering to change out of his nightclothes for the time when he was up. Only making the short trip down to the market when he was well and truly out of food. No, he’d done that for entirely too long. He couldn’t mope around forever, haunting his own home no less. As if he was the one who had died. 

It was past time to get out and do something again.

Tummy rumbling, he decided now was an excellent time to stop for a meal. He’d made good time, even taking into account how unaccustomed he’d become to long walks. Hobbiton was only an hour or two away from where he was now, and the day was still warm and pleasant. 

Leaving the path, Bilbo made his way through the long grass that tickled his bare calves and settled himself down happily next to a patch of cheerful daisies. He dug through his pack and took out what provisions he had and laid them out on a brightly checkered cloth before him, arranging them to his satisfaction. 

The little hobbit shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in the sweet air deeply, feeling the sun warm on his back and the wind rustling softly by.

It was so wonderfully peaceful and secluded.

“Halfling.”

Bilbo yelped, nearly knocking over his tea as he flailed, startled badly by the deep voice that had come unexpectedly from behind him. “By the Shire!” he squeaked, jumping to his feet, hand over his heart. It was pounding so wildly he feared it would jump right out of his chest at any moment.

The dwarf, for it was a dwarf now that Bilbo got a look at him, gazed back with an unimpressed scowl. 

“What are you doing out here?” demanded the dwarf in a startlingly deep voice. Bilbo gaped at him.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

The dwarf’s frown deepened, taking in the hobbit’s light colourful clothing and lack of any amour or weapons at all. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe for soft folk to be out in the wild.”

“Soft—the wild?!” Bilbo sputtered, completely put off by this patronizing and _rude_ stranger that had come out of nowhere and disrupted his peace. He huffed, drawing himself up to his full (and truthfully not very impressive) height. “I don’t appreciate your tone, _sir_. Nor do I enjoy being called _Halfling_.”

The dwarf blinked and started down at Bilbo, a crease appearing between his brows. “You are a Halfling. Unless you are a strange dwarf..?” 

“Oh, now _see_ here!” began Bilbo, crossing his arms, an angry flush coming to his cheeks. The absolute nerve of this dwarf! “I am a hobbit, _hobbit_ , not half of anything, thank you. I would have thought a dwarf would have known better than to imply that height was equate to person-hood! Really.”

“I—that’s not—“ the dwarf shook his head, scowling again. “These parts are far too dangerous to be out in unarmed.”

“These parts?” repeated Bilbo, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know what danger you’re expecting to find in the Westfarthing in midsummer, but I can assure you, you’ll be disappointed.”

“West father-ling?” repeated the dwarf slowly with a frown, as if trying out an entirely foreign word. Perhaps it was. 

“ _Farthing_ , yes,” Bilbo clicked his tongue and wagged his finger at the large fellow. “ _You_ , master dwarf, are in the Shire. How you got this far in without seeing anyone is beyond me, but you must have past Nobottle and Needlehole completely, and I can tell you that Hobbiton is only an hour or so in that direction,” he finished, waving his hand eastwards.

The dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise before narrowing, “I am in the Shire.”

“ _Yes_ ,” agreed Bilbo. The dwarf groaned, burying his head in a hand, his long dark hair covering his face.

“I assume the Blue Mountains are elsewhere, then?” came his slightly muffled voice. 

“You would be correct,” affirmed Bilbo. The hobbit found his feelings for the dwarf softening. Poor fellow was obviously lost and confused. Though how he had misplaced a whole _mountain range_ was beyond him. They always looked so very large and important on maps, though perhaps it was quite a different thing to find in person. “They are in the direction you came from, though I’d imagine a week or so away,” 

“My apologies, Master hal— _hobbit_ ,” corrected the dwarf. He nodded politely, a resigned set to his shoulders. “I will leave you to your—“

“You’re bleeding!”

At the hobbit’s startled cry, Thorin looked down at his arm. The two cuts on his upper arm had hardly been deep, but they’d bled through his makeshift band-aid some time ago. He shrugged in disinterest. “It’s stopped now.” It was nothing shocking.

The hobbit was clearly of a different mind.

“You _were_ bleeding—goodness me! Sit down, sit down! Oh dear, you poor thing, sit _down_ ,” Bilbo flapped a distracted hand at the dwarf as he rummaged through his pack, “Here I am blabbering at you while you’re fair bleeding out! I know I have something for…aha!” he crowed triumphantly, brandishing a small jar. “I’m no professional, mind you, but let me do what I…” he frowned up at the dwarf. “Sit down.”

Thorin sat.

“Good. We can’t have you falling over from blood loss! Now, let me see that arm of yours.” Thorin was silent as he let the little creature fuss over him, shrugging off his tunic when prompted. The hobbit made an abrupt coughing sound and turned bright red, staring at the large, muscular chest suddenly bared to him in awe. It was covered in an impressive pelt of dark hair that was dotted with fearsome scars and—were those _nipple piercings?!_ He forced his eyes away and cleared his throat a tad desperately.

“Right, yes, ah. Good.” He managed, forcing his mind to focus on the problem at hand. 

But a chest like _that_ was surely a problem as well! A problem Bilbo wouldn’t mind putting his own hands on…

Fighting his blush, he sternly reminded himself that this dwarf was _injured_ and needed help. Not to be ogled by a strange hobbit! He looked over the offered arm, starting with the hastily made bandage wrapped just below the massive shoulder. Bilbo pulled the cloth back carefully, grimacing as the dried and crusted blood pulled at the coarse arm hair. Goodness, but this dwarf had such thick arms! Muscular and hairy and…oh dear. 

“I, I’m not certain, but these cuts seem awfully warm. There’s some discoloration and swelling. They may be infected. Have you, are you feeling poorly? Feverish at all?” He cupped a hand to the dwarf’s face without thought, focused only on the slight flush rising above his beard. It deepened, much to his concern. 

“Master hobbit,” Thorin started, voice oddly gruff. “Dwarves are made strong. It will take more than these mere scratches to do me in.”

“Still…oh,” Bilbo blinked, realizing he was caressing the dwarf’s face. Mortified, he hastily removed his hand and ducked his head, feeling what was sure to be a brilliant flush covering his cheeks and his ears. “Oh, oh I am so sorry! I-I hadn’t meant to…”

“Think nothing of it,” responded the dwarf gruffly. When the hobbit continued to avoid his gaze, Thorin added in a teasing voice, “Weren’t you going to save me from blood loss? I may swoon at any moment.”

Bilbo huffed out a surprised laugh and narrowed his eyes. “Behave, or I might just leave you out here if you do.” The smaller creature’s hands were gentle as he applied a mint-scented salve from the jar, the mixture immediately soothing and cool against the cuts. “This should help, but you’ll still want to have it looked over. Infection is nothing to scoff at. Even for a big strong dwarf like yourself,” hobbit finished, flashing a quick grin at the other.

Thorin felt oddly pleased at the praise, subtly puffing out his chest. He didn’t miss the way the hobbit’s eyes were drawn by the movement and widened, before they darted away, the blush returning to the tips of his curling ears.

“There. That should hold you for a while.” Bilbo wiped his hands on a cloth and nodded in satisfaction, looking over his handiwork.

Thorin inclined his head in a courtly bow. “You have my thanks, Master…?”

“Oh. Oh, goodness me! I’m sorry, where are my manners?! Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” Thorin took the proffered hand carefully, marveling its softness and how easily it was swallowed up by his own much larger one. 

“Thorin son of Thrain, at yours.” They sat there for a few moments holding hands until they broke away, Bilbo smiling up at the dwarf disarmingly. Thorin cleared his throat, “Now, I must be getting on my way.”

He rose to his feet reluctantly, not looking forward to the long trek back in what still felt to be the absolute _wrong_ direction. Bilbo jumped to his feet as well, hastily brushing off his trousers and straightening his waistcoat.

“Of course. Now that you know where you’re going I’m sure you’ll get there in no time,” assured Bilbo with an easy smile. “Though do try to get that looked at. You should pass Needlehole if you head Northwest, just follow the path there and you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Thorin cleared his throat again and nodded, “The path. Of course.” 

The hobbit’s brow furrowed and he looked at the dwarf for a long moment. “…You _do_ know where the path is, don’t you?”

“…”

“Ah. Right, it’s just…here,” Bilbo found himself taking the dwarf’s sleeve and tugging him through the grass and over to the path, the larger following along obediently. “Here it is, see?” and indeed there was the path, winding through the little fields and pastures back towards Needlehole. And beyond that to Nobottle and then past the Crag and from there on beyond the borders of the Shire itself. Into the vast unknown of the world. Thorin’s home, that was. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Master Baggins.”

“Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure,” Bilbo gave a crooked smile. Thorin stared at the smaller creature intently for a moment before nodding decisively and making his way down the path. It still felt instinctively _wrong_ , but he supposed that meant he was finally heading back towards the mountains.

“Thorin, wait!” He turned, surprised at how eager he was to do so.

“You’re going east,” He blinked at the hobbit, distracted by soft, golden curls that glowed in the sun. “The Blue Mountains are west. You’ll want to turn around.”

“Ah.”

Bilbo sighed, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “Oh dear. Are you sure you’ll be alright getting to Needlehole? Hobbiton is much closer really, and I’m headed there myself.”

“I am a fully trained and seasoned warrior, Master Baggins. This short trek is nothing to me.” Thorin made to nudge his head in the direction of the path, but as he did so his vision swam alarmingly. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear away the sudden swarm of little black spots that had been creeping up on his vision all afternoon.

“—orin! Thorin! Are you alright!?”

Shaking his head in aggravation, the dwarf became aware of something pressed against his side, holding him up. It was the hobbit. Bilbo. Peering up at him with eyes blown wide with concern. “The heat,” he managed after a while, giving his head another shake in a vain attempt to clear his vision. “It is only the heat. Nothing more.”

“Fiddlesticks!” scowled the hobbit indignantly, “It most certainly is _not!_ ”

“It was only a moment of dizziness, I’ll be fine—“ Thorin was cut off by his stomach growling loudly. He’d not been able to find much food in the wild, his sword next to useless for hunting game. Come to think of it, it had been a few days since he’d last eaten properly. 

“That settles it,” declared Bilbo sternly, tightening his grip around the other’s waist and tugging him back towards his pack. “ _You_ are going to sit and rest and get some food into you, and then _we’ll_ head to Hobbiton. You are in no condition to go any further, and even this is pushing it!”

“Master hobbit—“

“It’s _Bilbo._ ”

“Bilbo, then. I am no invalid—“

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Taken aback, Thorin allowed himself to be gently pushed down to the grass, watching as the hobbit scurried about, placing a small pile of sandwiches and a cup of tea in front of him.

“Perhaps,” continued Thorin, ignoring his aching stomach, “but I will not intrude on your kindness any longer.”

“Are you turning down an offer of a meal?” asked Bilbo, incredulous. “That’s extremely rude! Feuds have started over less in the Shire.”

“But I am no hobbit.”

“Well _I_ am! And you cannot say you didn’t know about it because I _just_ told you. Now, are you going to have tea with me like a reasonable dwarf, or are you really going to insist on insulting me and my abilities as a host?” Thorin opened his mouth, “Because if you do, why, that would be a slight to not only _me_ but possibly my _entire family_ —the whole Shire even! You could very well start a _war_ between our people. And then nobody would get tea and everyone would be miserable and you’d probably still be out here wandering around lost and never make it back to your mountains, and you wouldn’t want _that_ to happen, now would you?”

Thorin was slightly hunched over, a hand pressed to his mouth. Before Bilbo could become truly concerned, he realized with a start that the dwarf was _laughing_. His body shook with suppressed laughter and when finally he raised his head, his eyes were fond. “Peace, Mas— _Bilbo_. I apologize,” A soft smile lit up the dwarf’s features beautifully, the creases around his eyes deepening. “I would be honoured to share in your meal.”

Bilbo cleared his throat and nodded, “Just so.” He finished setting up the spread to his satisfaction, seeing that Thorin got a few biscuits and his last apple as well as the plate of sandwiches. Apples were good for your health, or so Hamfast said, and this dwarf had clearly been neglecting his.

“Though if our people were to engage in war,” began Thorin after eating one of the surprisingly tasty sandwiches. “I don’t imagine the Shire would stand much of a chance against an army of ‘big strong dwarves’.”

Bilbo scowled at having his own words said back to him, noting the dwarf’s teasing smile. “Oh, you say that now, but you don’t know how persistent we hobbits can be. Two things hobbits hate more than anything might be change, and whatever gets in the way of a good meal. You’d be sorry,” he lectured, waving his sandwich at the dwarf, “We can be awfully stubborn when we want to be.”

“More stubborn than dwarves, even? Who are legendary for such a trait?” 

“Well, I did get you to eat, didn’t I?” 

Thorin chuckled, enjoying the way Bilbo’s toes curled when he was pleased with himself, as they were doing now. “You did indeed, most stubborn and persistent of hobbits.”

“That’s better. Now, more eating and less talking! Let’s try to reach to Hobbiton before nightfall and get you to a healer.”

 

Xxx

 

In later years, Thorin would never be able to recall the details of that walk to Hobbiton. 

He would not remember slowly becoming less and less coherent as his infection began to worsen, nor Bilbo’s raising panic, nor his being all but carried into Bag End. He had no memory of the raven that had watched this happen before flying off west in great haste.

What he would remember was the way the wind blew through the fields, how the sun had slowly turned everything to a beautiful golden glow and the pleasing voice of the hobbit beside him, his small arm wrapped firmly around Thorin’s waist in an unwavering support.

And how even far from any mountain, he had felt at home somehow, at peace in a way he had never before experienced out from under the stone of Erebor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm messing around with the timeline a bit, so this takes place roughly 10 years or so before the quest would have happened. So Bilbo is in his early 40s, maybe late 30s. I'm going to say that his mother has just died recently so he's still getting used to living on his own. 
> 
> Note: Some mentions of depression and mourning in this chapter.

When Thorin next came aware of himself it was to find he was laying on something soft. It would have been very comfortable if not for an unpleasant prickling numbness in his arm and dull ache in his head that cautioned the dwarf against opening his eyes too swiftly. Cautiously cracking them open, he found the pain was not as bad as he had expected. Heartened, he took in the room around him groggily.

Muted sunlight filtered in through soft curtains, sturdy wood and smoothed painted walls taking the place of polished stone. Everything was in soft and comfortable tones, a strange roundness to the architecture that was entirely unknown. It felt as if he were underground. Yet the stone itself did not answer as it should for the great deep dwellings he had known. On the windowsill was a small vase of bright flowers.

This was decidedly not the Blue Mountains. 

Thorin shifted on the bed (realizing that it was indeed a bed he laid on) and bit back a groan at how sore and weak his limbs felt. A heaviness was on him, making him feel unbearably useless for how difficult it was to even lift an arm. Durin’s Beard.

There were voices from the other room. From what he could assume were other rooms in whatever this…house was. Dwelling. It was no mountain, yet somehow Thorin felt as settled as if it were one. Which could not be, as last he remembered he had been—

Lost. Separated from his companions and unable to find his way back, wandering blindly for days until he had almost literally stumbled across the halfling. Hobbit. _Bilbo_. The little hobbit who had argued and glared and been so very kind all the same.

What had happened?

“You’re awake!” barely hiding his surprise, Thorin watched as the same hobbit bustled into the room with a bright smile and sat himself down in a chair right next to the bed. He felt an absurd amount of relief in seeing the other again. After all, while Bilbo had known these lands to be safe, Thorin knew no such thing and thus preferred to err on the side of caution. _Armed_ caution. As far as he was concerned anything could have befallen the bright creature while he was unconscious, and that would have been…unacceptable. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“I—“ Thorin coughed, wincing at the roughness of his voice and clearing his throat. “I’ve felt worse. Do not worry yourself on my account.”

“Oh dear. I see you are feeling better,” the hobbit teased softly, laying a gentle hand atop the covers. Bilbo smiled, though concern lingered on his features and dark shadows lay under his eyes. It bothered Thorin to see them there. As short a time as he had known this creature, the hobbit had been cheerful and bright. This weariness did not suit him at all.

“Where am I?” Thorin asked, gathering himself.

“Oh,” Bilbo blinked and looked around as if noticing his surroundings only then. “Oh, I’m sorry! I should have—this is Bag End. My home, that is. I-I hope you don’t mind but I didn’t want to put you up at the inn and you were a bit delirious and all at the time so—I-I may have panicked. A little, somewhat—you’re quite safe here, I promise! It was a bit, ah, close. For a while. It was—but the healer said the infection has just about run its course now and that you were on the mend and there was only the fever that needs to be watched—and you need to rest and get your strength back—“

“Bilbo—“

“So don’t worry, you’re going to be just fine—“

“Bilbo.”

“I—sorry. I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

“Bilbo.”

“…Yes?”

“I am fine. I will be fine,” he added when Bilbo looked to protest. “Thanks to you.”

The hobbit deflated with a heavy sigh and rubbed at his eyes. “Last time you said that you passed out on me. I do _not_ appreciate that, Master Dwarf,” he huffed, fixing the larger being with a glare. “What if I hadn’t been there? What would you have done? There may not have been anyone else nearby and then you’d have—you might have…” he made a small sound and sniffed, looking away. He let out a somewhat shaky breath. “Well, it doesn’t bare thinking about.”

Thorin gently took the smaller hand in his own where it still rested on the cover. Bilbo’s ear twitched in his direction but he didn’t turn just yet. “I am very grateful you were there. Your actions and generosity likely saved my life. I owe you a great debt, Master Baggins.”

“Oh tosh,” scowled Bilbo, facing the dwarf again and squeezing his hand tightly. “Any half-decent person would have helped you. I won’t have any of this debt nonsense. Though if you really feel you owe me something, than you can promise to take better care of yourself!” the hobbit finished, smacking the dwarf lightly on the arm with his free hand. 

“I will endeavor to do so.”

“Good. I daresay I won’t be around to save you all the time.”

“A pity. I could certainly get used to it.”

“Oh hush you,” Bilbo swatted at him again and Thorin chuckled, enjoying the way the hobbit’s curls fell over his ears and how his eyes seemed to laugh. It nearly took his breath away, the image somehow searing itself to his memory, tugging at something in his heart.

The effect was rather ruined by a large black raven swooping into the room and landing squarely on Bilbo’s head, omitting a sharp cry. Bilbo gave a little jump before settling, a hand half raised to his head.

“Yes, hello again,” he turned to Thorin, the raven hoping down to his shoulder with the movement. “Groâk here, says that he’s a friend of yours? He’s been very busy sending messages to your companions. You _do_ know this raven, yes?” he added in an undertone, eyes shifting between the raven and the dwarf.

Thorin suddenly paled, feeling his stomach roll unpleasantly in a way that had nothing to do with his illness and everything to do with a certain wicked bird currently watching him with a beady eye.

“I do, yes,” he managed, swallowing back his unease. 

“That’s a relief”, breathed the hobbit. “I wasn’t really sure what to think of it when he followed us in. I beg your pardon, Master Groâk,” he added with a slight nod to the bird. “Only, I’ve never come across such an intelligent bird before and I must admit it was a bit of a shock to a simple hobbit like myself.” The raven puffed up its feathers impressively at the praise even though he knew very well he was being intentionally flattered. 

“Quite understandable,” Groâk croaked, fluttering down to land on the bedspread.

“Now, Thorin, you stay put and let me get you some tea and something to eat. Missus Grub says you should be fine as long as you keep drinking her tea and _rest_ , so I don’t want to see you even thinking about getting up, do you hear me?” Thorin gave a sharp nod in the face of Bilbo’s scowl. “Good. Passing out on me once was more than enough, thank you very much!” 

And with that he bustled out of the room, mind already on the herbal concoction he’d been instructed to mix together for Thorin and the dinner he’d best get started on.

“What did you tell him?” Thorin growled the moment the hobbit had left the room. Groâk shifted from claw to claw, cackling throatily as he did. Thorin knew this raven well, it being one of many in the personal service of the royal family. Swift and efficient Groâk may have been, but his personality could drive any to tears. The raven only favoured a select few with anything even close to respect, and unfortunately for Thorin, Thráin was one of those few individuals. Which meant that he was stuck with this pest following him about. “What did you say to him? Did you tell him who I am?” 

It had occurred to Thorin sometime after his waking that if Bilbo knew it was a dwarf _Prince_ currently laid up in his home—possibly in his bed even—that things might become somewhat awkward between them. 

Thorin knew that there was always the chance of someone using him for his royal status. Or seeking to take advantage of it. Once realizing that it was no mere dwarf he had saved but the _Crown Prince of Erebor_ , Bilbo was well within his rights to demand a reward. Gold, court status, titles or even land if he so chose. And owing his life, Thorin (and through extension the entire royal family) would be honour-bound to provide it. No matter the absurdity or cost, or political unrest it may cause. However, Thorin personally thought it was more likely for Thranduil to propose marriage to Thrór than for the hobbit to exploit such power. 

A more likely scenario was for Bilbo to become overwhelmed with the thought of unknowingly hosting royalty in his home. Or, Mahal forbid, that he should feel ashamed of his familiar treatment of the Crown Prince of one of the mightiest Kingdoms in Middle Earth, or even fear _retribution_ for some perceived breach in propriety. No. He would not mention his status. He would not have Bilbo treat him any different (would not have the surprising warmth between them be ended by fear or social class). It would _not_ be tolerated.

Which brought the dwarf back to trying to strangle one of his father’s most trusted messengers. “What did you tell him, you wretched creature?!” he hissed, mindful not to let his voice carry to any curious pointed ears.

“Careful! Don’t want to strain yourself,” croaked the raven gleefully, fluttering easily out of Thorin’s reach as he made to grab at it. Thorin cursed as his head protested his sudden movements viciously, nausea forcing him to flop back against the cushions. He cursed and fought back a groan as dark spots danced around his vision. Groâk flew out of the room, cackling all the while and neatly swerving around Bilbo who had just returned with a steaming mug of tea.

“My, but he does enjoy doing that,” remarked the hobbit, watching the raven fly out an open window and into the sky. “He _is_ an acquaintance of yours, isn’t he? If he’s troubling you I can close the windows.”

“As tempting as that is, don’t bother,” Thorin gritted out, managing to sound somewhat normal and like he hadn’t just been trying to murder that wretched bird. “Unfortunately I am familiar with that menace. Besides, he’s a crafty one,” grumbled Thorin, giving a thankful nod as he gratefully accepted the steaming mug of…something. It smelled and looked about as bitter as what Thorin had come to expect from Oin’s many remedies, so he was sure it was no doubt good for him. Typical. “Even if you barred the windows he’d still find a way in. Down the chimney even. He won’t be rid of until it suits him to be.”

Bilbo hummed and seated himself lightly on the edge of the bed watching as Thorin carefully took a sip of the tea. The dwarf managed to keep a remarkably straight face, yet the sudden clenching of his hands around the mug and a twitch in his eye gave him away. Bilbo tried not to smile, remembering with great sympathy how disgusting those herbal infusions could be. 

“I don’t know about that,” he said, hoping to distract Thorin from the no doubt awful taste. “I may be no warrior, but I can certainly wield a broom well enough to defend my own home from pests,” declared the hobbit loftily. The creases around Thorin’s eyes deepened.

“I’ve no doubt of it. You are courageous indeed to defend me against such a threat.”

“Oh yes, very,” Bilbo agreed, grinning widely, “A Baggins _always_ sees a job through. I did say I’d save you from blood loss and infection, and as you’re still on the mend I’m not done with you just yet, Mr. Dwarf.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Thorin’s answering smile was soft and fond, and suddenly Bilbo had to look away, his heart fluttering wildly.

“Well,” he coughed, feeling his cheeks flush. “You just sit tight and drink that down. I know it tastes terrible but it really will help you regain your strength,” he slid off the bed and padded for the door. “I’ll be back in a minute with some broth. I daresay you’ll want it to chase away the taste.”

The hobbit was gone before Thorin could get another word in, already hurrying off to see to the needs of his guest. Sighing, Thorin stared at the open doorway where the smaller creature had gone through. The room lost some of its comfortable cheer, leaving with the hobbit to trail after him as he moved about the place. He took another sip of the repulsive tea, grimacing at the bitter and pungent taste even as he gamely swallowed it down. It would give him his strength back, after all. And then he’d be able to trail after the hobbit as well.

A piecing screech from Groâk as he flew in the window shattered the silence, a loud bang from the front of the hole following immediately. 

“Thorin!”

The dwarf jolted, nearly sloshing his tea all over the front of his shirt at the familiar voice. He hastily put the mug down and called out “Dwalin?”

“Thorin!” The dwarf burst into the room, eyes wild and axes at the ready, looking for all the world like he’d been trekking through the wild for a full week. He likely had. The instant Dwalin caught sight of his friend he let out a roar, dropping his axes and making straight for the other dwarf, catching Thorin up in a fierce hug. “You right _bastard!_ Mahal’s Balls, lad! Don’t scare me like that!”

“Dwalin,” Thorin breathed, relief coursing through him at the sight of his friend well and unharmed from the attack. He returned the embrace as best he could from his reclined position. The bald dwarf pulled back and _thunked_ Thorin on the forehead, thankfully not at his usual strength.

“You alright?” asked the guard, looking Thorin over worriedly. “What happened? Were there more orcs? Did one of these halflings get to you? How did—“

“Hullo! Yes, friend of Thorin’s, are you?” came a voice from the hallway. An irate Bilbo stood in the door frame, brandishing a heavy frying pan with both hands. He was eyeing Dwalin suspiciously, looking for all the world like he’d tackle him if Thorin so much as gave the word. Never mind that Dwalin was armed and near towered over him.

“Ah, Bilbo. This is Dwalin. My friend,” Thorin explained quickly.

“Aye,” agreed the guard, eyeing the hobbit warily.

“Oh. Well,” The hobbit relaxed his stance, “That’s alright then—Goodness, what have you done to my floor!?” There were large muddy footprints marring the pristine hardwood floor, trailing damningly back to Dwalin. Both dwarves stared dumbly at the hobbit who glared right back. “Pleased to meet you I’m sure—I understand that you were worried about Thorin, but _please_ , in the future kindly refrain from running amok through my house with your boots! I won’t have you soiling my carpets!”

Dwalin blinked. He looked around, actually seeing his surrounding for the first time. The room with its sheer curtains and a vase of cheerful flowers on the sill, little knickknacks scattered about here and there—it was as cozy and welcoming a home as he’d ever seen—to his own muddy footprints right in the middle of it all. And the small, soft hobbit, in a pretty waistcoat and an apron, huffing up at him disapprovingly. “I’m sorry, lad,” Dwalin said earnestly, and immediately bent to remove his boots. “I didn’t mean to dirty yer nice home.”

Bilbo’s frown cleared up, a bit taken aback by the honest apology. “Oh, well,” he moved to rub the back of his head and realizing he was still holding the frying pan turned the motion into an awkward sort of a wave. “No harm done. Any friend of Thorin’s is welcome in my home. Do make yourself comfortable, I’ll be along with some tea shortly.”

“Nice little thing he is,” remarked Dwalin once Bilbo had left. “Fiery too. I like him.”

“Dwalin, he saved my life,” admitted Thorin quietly. Not that Dwalin would ever do physical violence to someone so much smaller than he, but it was still a relief that his friend had not seen an enemy in Bilbo. 

“Then I owe him a grave debt,” conceded Dwalin, bows furrowing. “The whole Kingdom does.”

“ _No,_ ” Thorin nearly growled. Dwalin looked at him in surprise. “I--I do not want to overwhelm him. He only knows me as a dwarf, not as a Prince. I’ve told him of the debt he is owed, and he merely brushed it aside. Said he’d like for me to take better care of myself,” a faint blush dusted his face above his beard that had nothing to do with fever. “Do not tell him,” he pleaded, hands clenching in the blankets. “Once we’ve left I can send him a letter to explain how much he’s owed, but just—not now.”

Dwalin stared at him for a long moment, scrutinizing his friend. A slow smile broke out across his face, “You like him, don’t you?”

“Dwalin!”

“Calm down, don’t get yer skivvies in a twist,” laughed Dwalin, clasping Thorin on the shoulder. “He seems a good sort, and he won’t be afraid to tell you off for being a royal prat either. Good on him.”

“It’s not like that,” Thorin grumbled, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes and keeping his gaze firmly on the coverlet.

“Aye? Well, maybe I’m wrong.” Dwalin was still laughing at him, he was sure of it. 

“You will show him respect,” Thorin ordered glaring at his companion regally. The effect was rather ruined by his being propped up in a bed and wrapped in blankets, not to mention his hair looked more like a bird’s nest than anything. But Dwalin, good friend that he was, made no mention of it and merely bowed his head in compliance.

“Of course I will,” he picked up his muddy boots and waved them at Thorin, “Boots off and everythin’. His house, his rules.”

“Promise me you won’t tell him who I am.”

“I won’t, I won’t. As soon as that hell-beast of a raven comes back I’ll send word to the rest of the guards that they can stop running around in circles looking for you. Should be about near the Shire by now. I’ll have them meet us in a week or so, eh? Just near the border. Wouldn’t do to upset the locals with a parade of dwarven warriors stomping through their towns.”

“Thank you Dwalin.”

“Ach, it’s nothing. I’m just glad to see you safe, ye great lug.”

 

Xxx

 

It simply wasn’t fair. The first time he had company over in nearly a year and the place was a mess! Bilbo hadn’t had any warning or time to prepare at _all_. 

Things had begun to, well…pile up. A little. Lately. These last few months or so. Perhaps he hadn’t been keeping Bag End up to his father’s standards of cleanliness. Only, that didn’t seem to matter so very much now that Bilbo was still reeling from being the only inhabitant of the place. And really it seemed an awful effort when it was only him and everything was so very still and quiet and far too big.

The plan, he had decided, was to go on his little adventure and come back refreshed and rejuvenated and more than ready to get his life back together. Starting with the somewhat untidy hole he was now Master of. (And maybe one day it would stop hurting to think of himself as that but it certainly wasn't today).

Of course he hadn’t planned on meeting a directionally challenged dwarf that had fainted on him--not before enduring himself to Bilbo quite thoroughly. 

Suddenly all these people were going through his hole; Hamfast to help him carry the poor dwarf in, Missus Grub to treat the infection and fever, the raven, and now this other dwarf as well. Not to mention Thorin himself, the poor thing. The dwarf that Bilbo may have possibly been looking for something a fair bit warmer than just friendship with. All of them in his embarrassingly unkempt house!

Confusticate it all! He supposed this was what he got for letting the place (and himself) go. Poor Bungo must be rolling in his grave. Perhaps he’d even resurrect simply to raise a disappointed eyebrow at his son. And Belladonna would likely smack him with her dreaded wooden spoon. Only…he rather wished they would. Even just to scold him. Barely a year past and he still missed them so terribly he couldn’t stand it some days.

Well, he certainly was cleaning now. When it rains it pours, after all. Now that Thorin was finally on the mend (and he definitely did _not_ want to think about last night spent up with missus Grub, trying everything and anything to keep the dwarf’s fever down, to fight it back from a dangerously high temperature because he’d be _damned_ if he lost another person he’d just begun to care for in this house) he actually had a moment to try and make things presentable. He was almost thankful that Thorin was confined to the guestroom for the time being. Almost. But not quite.

Dashing out into the back garden, Bilbo plucked a few of his ripest tomatoes and few handfuls of spinach, dropping them in his apron. A few sprigs of parsley would go fine with the soup, and maybe if Thorin was feeling up to it he could try some soft bread and butter as well. 

Hurrying back into the kitchen he chopped them up swiftly, throwing them in the pot with the carrots, onions and potatoes already boiling away, giving it all a stir. Right, that would sit for a while. Thorin was being kept occupied by his friend and now the soup was started Bilbo could make a quick go at cleaning that mud off the floor. And maybe give the living room another quick check for any dirty plates and mugs he might have missed on his earlier sweep of the room. And take a quick peek at the bathroom while he was at it. Or start airing out another guest room.

Thankfully the mud wasn’t too thick on the wooden floorboards. And it had missed the carpet entirely. He dug out his mop and found a bucket for the water, checking on the soup and realizing he’d forgotten to add the mushrooms. Oh, and he had some turnips that would go well with it too. The floor first. But he could certainly get started on those turnips while waiting for the water to boil.

 

Xxx

 

Coming back from the bathroom, Dwalin came in just in time to see Thorin slowly edging himself out of the bed, fingers white where they clenched on the night table.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Thorin jumped and nearly toppled onto the floor. Would have if Dwalin hadn’t grabbed him around the chest and firmly hoisted him back in the bed. 

“Let me up,” Thorin growled.

“Oh no, you’re to keep yer arse put. Or do you want me to get the little spitfire over here?”

“Don’t you dare! I have to—“

“Not in yer state, laddie. It’s right here with the bedpan, or not at all.”

“Dwalin—!“

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before. Or would you rather the hobbit help you?” Dwalin grinned, wagging his eyebrows at Thorin’s horrified expression.

“Dwalin! It’s not that!” Thorin hissed, glaring at his completely unapologetic friend. “It’s Bilbo. He’s completely exhausted but he won’t stop running around. It’s something to do with being a proper host.” The guard frowned. It was true that in the last few hours the little thing had been running around like he’d a host of orcs hot on his trail. And they’d pounce if he stopped for more than a minute to check in on them every so often with tea and a plate of scones and biscuits.

“Hobbit custom?”

“Aye. Hosting is of the _utmost_ importance.” Or so he’d gathered from their conversation yesterday and Bilbo’s behavior today. “He’s convinced we’ll be seriously insulted if there’s even a single speck of dust in the house, or if he doesn’t produce more food at an interval of every other hour,” Dwalin crossed his arms, brow furrowing. “I suspect he didn’t sleep at all last night on my behalf,” continued Thorin with a twinge of guilt. “It’s a poor reward for his kindness that he run himself ragged on some strange sense of propriety.”

“No,” Dwalin agreed slowly, “No, that’s not right at all.”

“Exactly. So you see why I must help him.”

“No. I see _you_ , sittin’ here in bed and restin’. _I’ll_ be seeing to Master Baggins,” added Dwalin when Thorin looked to argue. “I’m not going to hurt the little thing! Suspect I’d be far more help in the kitchen then you’d be anyway.”

Thorin stiffened, raising his head regally. “I can make plenty of dishes,” he said coolly, eyes narrowed.

“Aye. Three. _Three_ dishes you know how to make. In a proper kitchen—“ added Dwalin quickly, “Campfire don’t count.”

“I am more than proficient at preparing ingredients and _green_ food,” dwarves may not be fond of green food, but on the road there was no room for being picky when supplies ran low. It wasn’t really that bad, but most preferred to eat leafy things without having to look at them, hidden tactfully in a sauce or a soup was best.

“Preparing them for their maker, you mean! The way you hack at them like an orc. But you get just as lost following a recipe as ye are with a map.”

“Relying on written instructions is hardly an efficient way to learn a skill.”

“You’re just worried that the hobbit will end up liking me more than he likes you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” growled Thorin, looking suddenly very much as he did as a dwarfling when his cousins would try to play with one of his favorite toys. Pout and all, bless him. 

“Easy laddie, I’m not going to steal him. But you’d best stay put and rest if you want to get better and play prince charmin’.”

A little known fact about Dwalin son of Fundin, Captain of the Crown Prince’s Personal Guard, was that he could be very gentle when it suited him. While many would take his heavily scarred and powerful form as an indicator of a harsh and gruff personality, it was a great disservice to think that all there was to the dwarf. 

While not built for small, delicate things, it in no terms meant Dwalin had no appreciation for them. That was not true at all. Those who took him as a large and stupid brute often ended up regretting having ever underestimated him so thoroughly. No one could grow up with Balin as a brother without learning a trick or two, as well as foster an appreciation for the finer more delicate things in life.

So while Dwalin saw himself as someone very much the opposite of soft, he never thought any less of those that were. Gentlefolk were to be awarded with just as much respect as seasoned warriors. He would never dream of disrespecting this hobbit, who had saved his best friend’s life and welcomed both dwarves so readily into his home without any real cause to do so.

But that didn’t mean he was above teasing the little creature. After all, Bilbo was quite willing and ready to give back as good as he got. 

 

Xxx

 

“Let me do that, Master Hobbit,” a voice rumbled from behind him. Bilbo bit back a yelp as the bald dwarf suddenly plucked the mop right out of his hands. Bilbo gaped at him.

“Now see here, that’s not on!” he tried to snatch the mop back but Dwalin moved it easily out of his reach. “I’ll not have a guest doing the cleaning so kindly give that _back_.”

“Seeing as I made the mess, only seems fair I clean it.”

“But that’s not proper at all!” he fought the urge to stomp his foot like a petulant fauntling. He’d become distracted by first the soup, then the huge pile of dirty dishes, and then he’d thought to check on the state of the bed in the other guest room, and make a new round of refreshments for the dwarves, and so on. By the time he got back to the floor it had already been a few hours. He certainly wasn’t about to let this dwarf delay him any longer.

“Neither is walking around with boots inside.”

“You didn’t know that. And you were worried for Thorin so I can hardly fault you there.”

“You saved his life,” the dwarf was suddenly serious, the lighter tone from before gone. "I owe you a great debt.” Bilbo made a noise in his throat that sounded like a mix between a boiling kettle and a growl.

“Thorin said almost the exact same thing.” The dwarf raised his eyebrow.

“That’d be ‘cause it’s true. You’re owed a great boon of your choosing.”

“I do wish you’d stop saying that!” Bilbo snapped, frowning at the dwarf. “I don’t want any boon or compensation or what have you. I don’t regret doing it—was _glad_ to, even!—I’d do it again in a heartbeat not just because it was the right thing to do, you understand, but because I _like_ Thorin and don’t want to see him come to harm! You haven’t put me out or any such nonsense. It’s no trouble at all, so really there’s no need for such dramatics. May I have my mop back now, please?” he added in a rush at the end, more than done with this large fellow. Unfortunately his mop remained a firm hostage in a large, tattooed fist.

“You like Thorin, aye?”

“I do, yes,” Bilbo replied defensively. What was this dwarf getting at? “I thought that was obvious.”

“Obvious, eh? Enjoy his company? Want to see more of him?”

“Well, yes. Of course I…” A large toothy grin spread across the other’s face. Bilbo’s eye’s widened. “Oh _no_. Don’t you go getting any ideas now,” scolded Bilbo, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. Drat this dwarf!

“Course not,” drawled the dwarf with a wink. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

“Oh _stop_. That is quite enough Master…” Bilbo blinked and realized to his embarrassment that he couldn’t recall the dwarf’s name. “Dear me. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’ve gone and forgotten your name.”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” he gave a deep bow.

“Bilbo Baggins at yours,” replied the hobbit. “Now that we’ve got that sorted, kindly give me my mop back.”

“Soon as I’m done cleanin’ the floor.”

“Ha ha. No. I’ve really not the time for this, you know,” he added when Dwalin just stared him down, mop still firmly in his hand.

“That’s the point. I deal with this, you scurry off and do whatever else it is you’ve been doing. Simple.”

“ _Not_ simple. It would impede my honour and declare me as unable to properly care for my guests as a host.”

“You saved my best friend and all I’ve done is defile your nice floor. Think of how my honour feels.”

“Defile is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“It’d ease some of my debt to repair the damage I’ve done.”

“You’re doing a lot more damage by holding my poor mop hostage and stopping me from doing my work.”

“Wait,” Dwalin held up a large hand and sniffed the air. “Is that somethin’ burning?” 

He chuckled quietly to himself as Bilbo yelped and dashed down the hall, desperate to save the threatened food. A bit underhanded, yes, but desperate times and all, Dwalin thought as he dunked the hard won mop in soppy water and set to cleaning.

There was nothing burning at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Groâk was inspired by pangur_pangur's wicked little bird art. I really like this piece, they look so mischievous! 
> 
> http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com/post/138600677414/sorry-for-the-surplus-of-photos-today-after-that


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo takes his guests down to the market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me. I'm writing this from my grave. 
> 
> (But it's almost as long as the other two chapters combined!!)

The land in which hobbits first settled and named _the Shire_ were not known for extremes in much of anything. The climate was mild, never doing anything too adventurous or dangerous much like its inhabitants. What hobbits thought to themselves as ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ were tame in comparison to those familiar with other lands even a short distance away. Summer would rarely cause a drought or set the plants to wilting, and as a rule the ice and snow never truly set in enough to freeze the Brandywine or be more than a nuisance during winter. 

There were the odd exceptions of course (some more notable than others) but they were rare days indeed when Shire-dwelling hobbits found themselves truly subject and set upon by the weather—though many would claim as much when a picnic or party was rudely interrupted by an ill-timed storm or squall.

The hot spell that had settled haze-like over the Shire this particular summer had everyone scampering into the cool of their smials for relief. Some outright refused to go out in the heat of the day, those who did sticking to the shade and avoiding any strenuous activity, brewing copious amounts of chilled tea and lemonade to combat the heat. Adventurous fauntlings dangled their feet in small pools, some wading into the shallows even if swimming itself was a dangerous thing indeed. Even Hamfast had been forced inside, only coming out to mutter and fuss about the state of his garden in the morning and evenings. 

Bilbo counted himself very lucky to have returned home from his trip when he did, as the next few days turned sticky and unbearably _hot_ , the droning of insects a constant sound in the thick summer haze that had fallen over Hobbiton.

Bag End—a hole of particular comfort and thus designed to keep cool and warm accordingly—could only do so much, and the hobbit found himself shedding his waistcoats and cravats, even daring to pop open an extra button or two on his shirt in the stifling heat. Company regardless. Though it did seem his guests followed a different brand of propriety.

Bilbo huffed and blew a stray curl out of his eyes, leaning his head back against the armchair and closing his eyes with a tired sigh.

“It’s hot.”

“Aye. You’ve said that,” said Dwalin. They were in the living room, Thorin on the couch, Dwalin on the floor with his back lent against it, and Bilbo wilting away in his armchair. Why Dwalin had rejected both his perfectly inviting furniture was beyond Bilbo, but the dwarf insisted he was happy enough where he was, carving away at a bit of wood. Bilbo had been peeking up at it from his book for the last hour or so, fascinated to see what it would be. He was certain Dwalin had caught him looking, but the large dwarf hadn’t seemed to mind, keeping the wood shavings in a neat pile between his feet.

“I’m saying it again,” said Bilbo without opening his eyes. “It’s _hot_. How you lot can still go around in those thick tunics is beyond me,” he muttered, peeking an eye open to glare irritably at his guests. Both dwarves were annoyingly unaffected by the heat, leaving only Bilbo to melt and wither away under its onslaught. Thorin was even more composed than Bilbo and that was just plain unfair, him still being on the mend and all.

Dwalin smirked when he noticed Thorin’s eyes darting away from the exposed line of Bilbo’s neck, made all the more obvious as the hobbit huffed again and squirmed about uncomfortably, tendons straining as he arched in a stretch, skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. 

Thorin cleared his throat and reached for the mug at his elbow, forgetting that it was full of horribly bitter, chilled medicinal tea. He took a large swig from it. Dwalin snorted to himself at the look of panicked revulsion on his Prince’s face, snickering as Thorin was forced to stoically swallow it all down. Poor sod. Thorin carefully set the mug down and covered his mouth discreetly, eyes darting over to see if Bilbo had noticed. Bilbo—unfortunately—had not, an arm now draped over his face, slumped sideways in his armchair, the very image of one tragically overcome by the heat. 

“We are dwarves, Bilbo,” Dwalin said, as Thorin surreptitiously reached for his glass of non-medicinal chilled tea, no doubt to try and wash the horrible flavor away. “It takes heat far greater than this to bother Durin’s folk.”

“Of _course_ it does,” muttered the hobbit, uncovering his face to fan himself wearily with his book. Thorin smiled to himself at the sight. It was a welcome change to watching Bilbo run himself ragged cleaning and fussing over everything. He had calmed down after that first night, all but passing out after dinner when he had settled down at Thorin’s bedside and read to him from a book of hobbit tales. The same book Thorin had now propped open on his lap. He couldn’t help but feel the stories now lacked something when the words weren’t read aloud in Bilbo’s clear voice. 

Thorin cleared his throat again. “A dwarf is made to withstand heat many times the likes of this.” He sat up a bit straighter as Bilbo looked at him curiously. “We were created in the great forge of our Father, and so in turn, we create. Often in forges of our own.”

“’Course not all dwarves will choose a craft that has them working in a forge,” added Dwalin. “But we all learn the basics and even wee pebbles can tell their hammers from anvils.”

“Pebbles?” asked Bilbo, book laying forgotten on his chest, his eyes bright in fascination.

“Children,” explained Thorin.

“Oh, goodness, that’s adorable. But isn’t it…well, dangerous for little ones?” asked Bilbo.

“We don’t let them alone in there, of course,” scoffed Dwalin, shooting the hobbit a glance. 

“Oh no, of course not!” agreed Bilbo hastily.

“There’s always someone to watch them when they start flinging molten metal at each other,” finished Dwalin evenly, not looking up from his carving. 

“M-molten…metal…” stuttered Bilbo, eyes wide and face paling at the thought. Thorin huffed and aimed a kick at Dwalin’s head. The guard chuckled, not even flinching at the blow.

Bilbo looked back and forth between the two in confusion. “They don’t… _ohh_ , you are teasing me again, aren’t you?!”

“One of his many failings, I’m afraid,” said Thorin, shoving his friend with his foot again. Dwalin waggled his eyebrows.

“Must have been from all the coal I ate as a pebble,” he sniggered.

“Ha ha. Yes. A true staple of the dwarven diet, no doubt,” replied Bilbo sourly, sitting up to sip from his own chilled tea. “ _Very_ funny.” 

“It’s not,” denied Dwalin. “I’ll have you know that Thorin here has eaten coal before.”

“I’m sure he has,” said Bilbo rolling his eyes. He sent a commiserating look at Thorin. Thorin, who had fallen suspiciously silent and suddenly would not meet his eyes. Bilbo blinked and slowly set his glass down.

“…You didn’t…”

“He did,” said Dwalin eagerly.

“No!”

“Aye! Took a right big bite out of one, bless him!” laughed Dwalin. “I’ll never forget the face he made.”

“I was a pebble!” defended Thorin, his cheeks turning red. “And _someone_ told me it would make my beard grow in faster,” Thorin finished in an embarrassed mutter. From the dirty look he shot at Dwalin, Bilbo had a pretty good idea of just who that somebody had been. 

“Dwalin, that was mean,” admonished the hobbit, offended on behalf of his friend. “Thorin, kick him again.”

“Gladly.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it!” yelped Dwalin as Thorin finally managed to shove him over. 

“Well, that serves you right,” sniffed Bilbo as Dwalin lay on the floor groaning. “Antagonizing someone when they’re still recovering from illness, really. Shame on you!”

“Ach, not the shame. You’ll besmirch my honour.”

“You’ve only yourself to blame. And I’ll thank you not to roughhouse.” Bilbo got to his feet, his nose wrinkling in displeasure as his clothing clung damply to him around the creases. He brushed himself down, tugging everything back into place with a disgusted grunt. This heat was just sickening. “Thorin’s finally getting back on his feet,” he continued. “It won’t do to set him back again.”

“I’m feeling much better,” Thorin said quickly, rising from his seat as well. “Thanks to your kindness and hospitality, Bilbo. For which I will be forever grateful.” 

The hobbit huffed, though he was pleased by the praise. “Nonsense. It was the least I could do.” Such dramatic fellows these dwarves were. He drained the last of his tea, making a mental note to take the new jug he had made up earlier out of the cold cellar. It should be chilled enough by now.

“In truth I don’t think I can handle much more of laying around all day being useless,” confessed Thorin, collecting his own dishes. 

“Useless nothing!” said Bilbo sternly, wagging a finger at the dwarf. “You were seriously wounded for goodness sakes! That does tend to make a body not up for much activity.”

Thorin shrugged. “It would feel better to have something to do. Now that I am able.” 

For the Crown Prince of Erebor had not led an idle life. When he was not sitting in on council meetings there was paperwork to be done. Visiting dignitaries needed pandering to and the odd orc raid had to be defended against. Then there were the mines to check in on and weapon training and public events that required crown presence or even a speech. Whenever Thorin found himself with a spare moment he would go down to the forges for craft or simply to walk through his Kingdom. In short he was unused to such idleness as he had experienced in the last few days and unsure as what to do with himself. 

But more importantly, as much as he relished Bilbo’s caring attentions, the urge to reciprocate was becoming unbearable. And there wasn’t much he could do while still being considered an invalid. 

“Having some task or chore would be very welcome,” he confessed. Dwalin grunted in agreement. 

“I have been letting you help!” said Bilbo, frowning. For it was true, he had been allowing the dwarves to do a few small things here and there.

“Barely,” grumbled Thorin, thinking of how much quicker they could be done the dishes if he were allowed to wash instead of merely drying with Dwalin. Thorin would make quick work of those heavy pots and pans that Bilbo scrubbed (and cursed at) every day, struggling to get them clean. The hobbit could relax at the kitchen table instead, chatting with them as they worked and telling them where everything went to put away. It was a pleasing thought. But then most thoughts with Bilbo in them were pleasing ones.

Bilbo hummed and clicked his tongue. “How about we make a trip down to the market? I do need to stock up on supplies, and you can both help me carry everything.”

Thorin brightened. “Yes, I would love to see your Shire Markets. Can we go now?” he asked eagerly.

“Now? Certainly not,” said Bilbo primly. At Thorin’s fallen expression he hurried to explain. “Firstly, it’s just past midday. Maybe you lot can handle such a strong sun, but I can’t! I’d waste away in this wretched muggy heat, and then you’d be stuck lugging my body around like a sack all through the town. That won’t do you any favours with the locals, let me tell you.”

Thorin quietly thought to himself that should he ever carry Bilbo it would not be like a sack. No, not like a sack at all.

“Second, it’s nearing tea time,” continued the hobbit. “But most importantly today isn’t a market day. There’s nothing open.”

“But…how do you get by if the market is closed” asked Thorin, bewildered. There were several grand market halls located throughout Erebor, their splendor and exotic wares near legendary for the wealth of both dwarven craft and trade from the far east and south. The halls opened everyday without fail, save holidays or dire emergencies. It was bizarre and near impossible to image them being closed for anything less.

“You can’t expect everyone to set up shop all the time,” said Bilbo, making his way into the kitchen. Thorin followed, Dwalin picking himself up off the floor with a groan and doing the same. 

“There’s a few permanent shops like the tailor and banker and all that, but the true market stalls only come out four days a week for business.”

“And when are these four days?”

Bilbo smiled. “They’re just about to start. So I suggest we set out after breakfast tomorrow.”

 

Xxx

 

Breakfast the next morning turned out to be _second_ breakfast, according to Bilbo. Apparently there was a set time for each meal, and the hobbit confessed that he had never been much for having more than a quick bite for the first, it being a bit too early for his tastes. Second breakfast was the true morning fare.

“I’ve never been to a non-dwarven market before,” said Thorin as they sat around the table. There was toast and eggs and fried tomatoes with cheese, and even some potato wedges laid out before them. Thorin relished the taste, everything somehow more appealing than similar fare he’d had in the past. Yet Thorin was too eager to see more of the Shire to eat much, the thought of seeing more of where Bilbo lived and went about his business too enticing. 

“No?” asked Bilbo, taking a bite of potato wedge. 

“Well—there’s one—very close to the mountain,” amended Thorin, remembering Dale. “But other than that I don’t often get to see a full market in my travels.” 

It was true. Thorin was often stuck in council meetings the whole time when he traveled to Dale or Mirkwood. Sometimes there would be a guided tour, but he was rarely encouraged to explore in such foreign cities, and the only markets he saw were from a distance. Travel to a dwarven settlement was much more relaxed.

“The only non-hobbit market I’ve been to is in Bree, so I’m hardly any better than you in that regard,” said Bilbo, humming. “I’m not sure how it would compare.”

 

“I would like to know more about how you live in your Shire,” said Thorin, eyes bright.

Bilbo gave a small laugh and ran a distracted hand through his curls. “Oh, well…I’m sure it’s not much compared to your great halls and all.” 

Now there was a worrying thought.

As a faunt, Bilbo had been gifted a beautifully illustrated book of the Great Cities and Kingdoms of middle earth and the many wonderful architectural feats they boasted. Rivendell’s waterfalls had been a favorite of his, and the huge tree houses of Lothlorien were absolutely enchanting. Yet it was the great deep halls and caverns of the dwarven cities that had affected him the most, frightening and exciting him all at once with how utterly foreign they were. Imagine an entire Kingdom underground! Stretching on for miles and miles deep _deep_ below the surface of the earth, lit by lanterns and the gleam of precious metals and gems. It still brought a thrill down him to think of, especially when his own little cellar felt rather far enough underground as it was.

 

It did not escape young Bilbo that there were no drawings of the Great Smials in this book of notable places. Or of the old Mathom house in Michael Delving, though everyone agreed that it was quite the sight. No mention of Brandy Hall or the high hay could he find, no matter how often he had flipped through the pages of his book. Nothing about the three farthing stone or even the party tree! There was no mention of hobbits at all. Not even a footnote. What there was, was a passage on the great lost kingdoms of Arnor—and even a small entry of the Breelands—but nothing more of the area. Nothing worth noting, anyway.

“You mustn’t expect too much of it,” Bilbo said, wondering with a sinking heart at how underwhelming his home must seem to these well-traveled dwarves. “It suits us hobbits just fine, but we are simple folk. Not built for grandness, you see. It’s…well, it’s certainly no mountain kingdom.”

“Would be damn surprised if it was, lad,” said Dwalin, nudging the hobbit with a large foot. Thorin was watching him quietly, a small frown on his face.

“Yes, alright,” Bilbo said with a huff, swatting halfheartedly at the bald dwarf. “Let’s just finish up here and we’ll be off. Best to beat the heat. And the midday crowd—if there is one in this weather.”

 

Xxx

 

Dwalin wouldn’t call himself the sharpest axe in the armory when it came to reading people, but he wasn’t half bad at it either. 

He knew all the cues and tells to look for in open court to know a threat when he saw it. He could tell how skilled of a warrior a person was simply by observing their movements and the way they held themselves. Dwalin son of Fundin could even stand through those bloody council meetings and listen in to all that cursed double-talk and fancy wording diplomats loved to fling at each other and follow all the hidden implications and subtle body language well enough. He took his position as Thorin’s personal guard to heart, and if that meant studying all that prosy political shite alongside Balin, then so be it. 

Just because he could do it didn’t mean he had to like it. All that fancy, flowery dancing around the topic was tedious as all shite, and after putting up with it all damn day he had no tolerance for it on his own time. He knew he was considered blunt. Dwalin simply preferred to say what needed to be said—or better yet, avoid words entirely and just do the damn thing!

But if Dwalin could read anyone near-perfectly and with very little effort on his part, it was Thorin. And Thorin, his cousin, his Prince, best friend and shield-brother—was clearly ass over tits for little Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin didn’t have crushes. He just _didn’t_. 

There’d been a few when they were growing up, but it was more of the innocent hero-worshiping sort than anything else, and they’d passed easily enough in time. Thorin found others attractive or likeable, but acting further on such feelings was foreign to him. It wasn’t uncommon behavior, many dwarves were craft-wed or felt no deeper attraction to another until they met their One. But Thorin claimed to be neither, simply not feeling a pull in any direction at all.

No string of heart-broken lovers trailed after Thorin Thrainul. 

Yet Thorin had taken to Bilbo Baggins and the hobbit to Thorin, if Bilbo’s affectionate fussing was anything to go on. Not to mention the meaningful glances at each other, accidentally-on-purpose stolen touches and the honest to Mahal game of _footsie_ that had broken out over dinner last night. 

 

It was damn good to see his best friend so relaxed and openly happy in a way that he hadn’t seen in many years. Bilbo was clearly good for Thorin, the dwarf all but glowing as he not only regained his strength but seemed to shrug off years of the stress and tension being Crown Prince had caused him.

And though he had only known the hobbit for a few days, Dwalin was willing to bet Thorin was good for Bilbo as well. 

The hobbit had said a few things that led Dwalin to suspect Bilbo had been in mourning recently. Rather serious mourning. It would explain Bilbo’s panic over suddenly having guests, and how his home had come to be in such a ‘blatantly unacceptable state’ as he seemed to find it. Bilbo was a fiery thing make no mistake, as sharp and clever as he was kind—but there was a quietness to him that spoke of loneliness, a hesitance to his movements sometimes as if he were re-learning something that had fallen out of habit. But the more he watched, the more Bilbo began to relax, his smiles becoming wider and more natural, his posture loosing its hunched stiffness about his shoulders and back. The little thing seemed to honestly enjoy their company—he even liked talking with that wretched raven when Groâk choose to stop by! But Bilbo especially enjoyed Thorin’s company. 

That much was obvious.

It had the guard worrying on their departure from the Shire if this forming bond between them was really as serious as he suspected it to be.

And he had his suspicions.

What was perhaps Dwalin’s biggest hint as to the true nature of that bond occurred when they all went into town after breakfast that day.

 

“It’s not…ah, terribly grand, I’m afraid,” Bilbo said as he led the dwarves down the hill, armed with a basket apiece and a large straw hat for Bilbo. He had offered to lend his guests hats of their own, but both had declined. Their loss.

Hobbiton stretched out before them, the familiar grassy hills and dirt paths dotted with smials and bright patches of flowers, laundry hanging up to dry in the bright sun and gentle breeze. Hobbits wandered about outside, gardening and gossiping and going on their way as they would.

Bilbo cleared his throat self-consciously. “The Great Smials up in Tookland are a fair bit more impressive. Massive holes, they are, it’s a right mansion. There’s Brandy Hall as well—it’s a regular _warren_ —as Hamfast likes to say. Oh, and some of the buildings in Michel Delving, like the Mathom House, are really quite something!” A large hand landed gently on his shoulder, stopping his rambling.

“This is your home, Bilbo,” said Thorin softly. “And that alone makes it more worth seeing than any of those other places.”

A warm tingling made its way up Bilbo’s body, starting in his toes and climbing all the way up to his ears. “That is,” he cleared his throat, very aware of the large warm hand comfortably resting on him. “You’re very kind to say so.”

“Nonsense,” admonished Thorin softly, his thumb gently rubbing against the soft cotton of the hobbit’s shirt. “If it is important to you than it is important to us as well.”

“Aye, fair sight better than any elvish place I’ve been,” added Dwalin as Thorin reluctantly removed his hand, his fingers tingling pleasantly from the contact.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Dwalin. “I _know_ what you lot think of elves, and I’m not entirely sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is, don’t you worry yer pretty feet about that,” chuckled the dwarf. “Might not be a mountain, but you hobbits have the good sense to live underground.”

Bilbo hummed in agreement, cheered by their approval. He cast a fond look around at the many round doors and chimneys poking out from the hills. “You know, there are some houses here in the Shire—made of wood and brick and the like, above ground and all—and I can’t say I understand the appeal. They’re so terribly drafty and creaky. It’s just not comfortable.”

“Not practical either. They fall into disrepair so easily,” added Thorin. 

“Hard to defend, easy to knock down,” scoffed Dwalin, shaking his head. “Dumb idea if I ever heard one.” 

“I suppose they are exotic to see,” mused Bilbo. “I’ve a picture of Edoras in a book. It’s quite something—surrounded by its great wall way up on a hill—even if it does look a fair bit uncomfortable.”

“Flammable too, aye,” muttered Dwalin with a smirk. “All that wood and not enough stone.”

“Goodness, I hadn’t thought of that!”

 

By then they had reached the market proper and all the hustle and bustle of a busy market day on a summer day. Even as hot as it was. Clearly everyone had the same idea to get their shopping done early and retreat inside before it became unbearably sticky. 

Bilbo led his dwarves into the thick of it, cheerfully ignoring the startled looks sent their way and setting about his business. It would be best to get in and out fairly quickly. Hobbits may not be prone to violence and aggression, but vicious gossip and snide remarks were an entirely different matter. Best to keep it quick. Bilbo was enjoying his guests so much he’d rather not share them with the whole of Hobbiton anyhow.

“Oh look, apples!” Bilbo exclaimed loudly, drawing the dwarves attention back to himself. “Would one of you get a few for me? It will go much faster if we split up.”

“I will go,” declared Thorin, shoulders set in determination. “You need only say what you wish and I will see it done.”

“Goodness me,” said Bilbo, flustered in the wake of such a grave statement. “It’s only a few apples. I’m not sending you out on some grand quest!”

“Nevertheless,” said Thorin firmly, tone stating that there was clearly no difference in his mind. The hobbit huffed and rolled his eyes but was unable to keep the exasperated smile from his face.

“ _Honestly_. Now, just get five or six—and here, use this,” he grabbed Thorin’s hand and put a few coins in it, curling his own hand around the much larger fingers to stave off any argument. “This should cover it. Don’t worry about any change, alright?”

From the way the dwarf was looking at the coins in his palm, Dwalin got the distinct feeling that Thorin would paying for the apples from his own pocket and sneaking the hobbit’s money back to him later. But outwardly Thorin nodded solemnly and stalked off to the stand, head and shoulders above most of the market crowd. Bilbo found something enduring about the sight, and a quick thrill went through him seeing this dwarf in his very own little market place.

“You sure that’s wise, laddie?” asked Dwalin once they began moving again. There were some potatoes that Bilbo had a mind to use and they made their way over to them.

“What, getting Thorin to buy apples? I know the Lady who runs that stall, miss Rosemary would never overprice him.”

“I mean are ye sure he’ll not end up halfway back to Bree trying to find us again?”

“What? Oh really, it’s just the marketplace, he couldn’t get that badly lost…well, maybe…” Bilbo trailed off, frowning. “It couldn’t hurt to—“

“Bilbo,” they both turned to see Thorin coming towards them, empty-handed. 

“There you are,” exclaimed Bilbo happily. Dwalin watched his friend in confusion, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Everything alright?” 

“Yes, only which kind of apples should I get? I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with which are the best.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry! Ask for some baking apples, she’ll know which ones.”

“Baking apples,” repeated the dwarf with a nod. “Of course. He ducked back into the crowd, silently mouthing ‘baking apples’ to himself least he forget his instructions. Bilbo watched him with a fond smile.

“So far so good,” he said to Dwalin, nudging the dwarf lightly when he continued to stare after Thorin, bewildered. “Could you get me some carrots? They come in a bundle, just over there.”

“’Course,” grunted the guard, shaking himself. It must have been an odd fluke. Or maybe Thorin had simply seen Dwalin’s head over the much smaller and curlier crowd. “But I’m not taking yer gold.”

“Oh no, I’ll not have a guest paying for their own food!”

“Too bad, little hobbit,” grinned the guard. “You saved my shield-brother. Least I can do is get you some ruddy vegetables.”

“No you won’t. Didn’t we go over this already? It’s a slight against my abilities as a host. You do me _grave_ insult.”

“A dwarven custom then,” said the dwarf after a pause. “To show appreciation to the host by paying them back in food.”

“A custom now, is it?” asked the hobbit, one eyebrow raising dangerously.

“Aye.”

“A long-standing and time honored custom, I’m sure?”

“Like you said. Wouldn’t want to hurt my poor sensibilities now, would ye?”

Bilbo hummed and clicked his tongue. “I don’t buy it.”

“That’s the idea. We buy it for you.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “There’s no custom like that, is there? Ohh, you’re pulling another trick on me like with the mop! But I won’t fall for it this time!”

“Trick? Me?” Dwalin intoned, aghast. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

“I didn’t even _have_ anything in the oven, you _bad_ dwarf!”

“Smelt like it to me. But honest, just ask—Thorin!” The dwarf had reappeared, still without apples, looking a tad sheepish. The prince frowned down at his friend.

“Dwalin, what have you done to Bilbo?”

“I was just telling him about the old dwarven custom of buying a host food to show appreciation. You know, _that_ old custom.”

“What custom—ah!” unfortunately for Dwalin, clunky iron-clad boots did tend to make some noise, especially when one was used to stomp on another similarly clad foot. “Yes,” amended Thorin quickly. “That custom. It’s, ah, very important. Integral to our society.”

“Is it now?” Bilbo said flatly.

“Old and sacred as Durin’s balls, it is,” added Dwalin sagely.

“A cornerstone of our people.”

“You don’t say,” drawled Bilbo, utterly unimpressed.

“Which is why I will be giving these back to you,” muttered Thorin, holding out his hand with Bilbo’s coins in it. “It is the least we can do to repay your kindness, dear hobbit.”

“If this is such an important custom, then why did you accept my gold before?”

“I—ah, Dwalin,” but Dwalin had taken his chance and was already making his way over to the carrots, having slipped away when the slipping was good. Curse him. “I had intended to…to return them after.” Admitted the dwarf quietly. Bilbo huffed, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Is this really so important to you?” asked the hobbit, glancing up at Thorin.

“You’ve done so much for me—for _us_ , and it feels wrong to do nothing in return.”

Bilbo frowned. “It was done out of goodwill. I wasn’t looking for repayment.”

“This isn’t about my debt. Is it so hard to believe I would want to do something for you out of honest affection? Can friends not do each other a kindness? You said we were friends…” Thorin trailed off, suddenly uncertain. He had heard the hateful rumors spread about the greed of dwarves, saying they had no care for anyone or anything beyond gold and gems. That a dwarf would only help another if there was something in it for them. What if Bilbo thought this of him?

“Of course we’re—” Bilbo’s eyes widened in dismay. “Oh Thorin, of _course_ we’re friends! Don’t ever think otherwise.” Bilbo’s hands grasped Thorin’s much larger one, squeezing it gently. “You are a very dear friend to me Thorin. Even if we’ve only known each other for so short a time I feel as if…ah, that is…you are truly…dear. To me. That is…” He trailed off, face beat-red. His hands were carefully engulfed in much larger ones, and when Bilbo peeked up it was to find Thorin was smiling down at him, soft and open.

“You are very dear to me as well, my dear hobbit.”

Bilbo cleared his throat, his heart racing hopefully inside his chest. “I…goodness,” he managed, suddenly overcome. “This, this heat. It’s really rather all, all too much—this, this _dratted_ heat!” Bilbo carefully extracted his hands from between Thorin’s and took off his hat, fanning himself with it desperately. It was with a start that he realizing they were still in the middle of the market place, no doubt drawing all kinds of attention by making such a scene of things. “Gracious,” he said aloud. “No wonder, it must be nearing midday!”

“Then let’s finish here and get you back inside,” said Thorin lowly, placing a courtly hand on Bilbo’s lower back.

“Yes, yes, that would be best.”

“Ah, about those apples,” began Thorin sheepishly. “I may have been…turned around a little.” 

Bilbo smiled and patted the dwarf consolingly on the arm. “That’s quite alright. Shall we go together?”

“No. I would do this for you.”

“Alright. Now, you see that bright yellow patch of fabric over there? The stall next to it is where you want to go. And get about a half dozen bakers apples, alright?”

“Right.” Thorin nodded solemnly and made his way off into the crowd. Bilbo watched after him, a bright giddy feeling rising in his belly. He was _very_ dear to Thorin. That’s what the dwarf had said. It was dizzying to think of. He put his hat back on his head, glad he could excuse the heat he still felt around his ears for the sun.

“See something you like, laddie?” Bilbo jumped at the thick voice, turning to see Dwalin standing beside him and smirking. He huffed, narrowing his eyes at the others expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

Dwalin only grinned and held up his basket, a bunch of carrots inside. “Got yer veggies.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo cautiously.

“Weren’t you going to buy some potatoes?” asked Dwain. Bilbo blinked. 

“What?”

“You said you’d get some, but you’ve just been standing here talking with Thorin this whole time. Making a right scene of it too—”

“Oh look, lemons!” said Bilbo loudly, conveniently cutting the dwarf off. “Why don’t you go get a couple, _hmm?_ ”

“Ach, yer lookin’ sour enough without them, laddie!” laughed Dwalin, clapping Bilbo on the back. It was nowhere near the dwarf’s true strength—for which the hobbit was grateful (he didn’t fancy a colourful bruise)—but not grateful enough to excuse that awful joke. 

“Oh, you’re _horrible!_ ” he shot after Dwalin as the dwarf retreated into the crowd again. 

 

Xxx

 

He managed to find everything he needed in short order and made his way over to the butchers. He met up with Thorin quite by accident. The dwarf had managed to successfully buy the apples, but had gotten lost after, finding Bilbo purely by accident as he made his way over. Dwalin had given Thorin a funny look but said nothing, which was fine by Bilbo. It was probably better not to know anyway.

Bilbo hummed cheerfully as he browsed through the assortment of meats, looking each cut over carefully as the dwarves followed behind him. They ate nearly as much as a hobbit could, and it was about time Bilbo did some showing off as to what a hobbit could truly accomplish in a kitchen. 

“Let’s see, roast duck or roast pork?” he asked aloud, thinking of all the dishes he could make.

“Pork.” 

“Duck.” 

Bilbo shrugged. “Both it is then. Oh, look at that lovely sausage! We’ll have to have some of that too. How do you two feel about fish? We’ve already got some lemon that would go along nicely.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Started Dwalin, eyes hungrily watching everything going into the baskets, “Because believe me, I _like_ where this is going—but isn’t this a bit much?”

Bilbo shot him a look. “Haven’t you seen how many meals hobbits eat a day?” he admonished. “Trust me, it’s not. Give it a few days and I’ll have to restock again. Thorin’s finally able to stomach proper meals. It’s only right that we celebrate with something nice.”

“Everything you’ve made has been more than delicious, dear hobbit,” said Thorin softly.

“Oh tosh,” Bilbo admonished, his ears turning a pleased pink. “That was nothing. Just wait until I’ve made something truly decadent, then we’ll talk. Now what about those ribs over there? And maybe a chicken or two?”

“Yes _please_.”

So it was a rather large and heavy pile that was eventually dumped on the counter in front of the butcher.

“I’ll take these, Mosco,” said Bilbo cheerfully, pulling out his coin pouch.

“Excellent choices, Mr. Bilbo,” beamed Mosco, noting happily that Bilbo had picked many of his choicest (and most expensive) cuts. He quickly wrapped each up in brown paper and put it all in a sack—the thing near bulging at the seams—and tied it with a tag, Bilbo’s name scrawled across. “That’ll be two gold pieces. Shall I have young Andy run that up to Bag End for you?”

“Yes thank you, that would be much appreciated.”

“I’ll have him run by as soon as he’s back from the Brownlocks place, shouldn’t be more than…”

The dwarves had been quietly watching the exchange, but as soon as Thorin realized what Bilbo had wanted, he’d simply cut between them and effortlessly hefted the entire sack to rest on his shoulder. With one arm. 

Both hobbits stared silently at Thorin, mouths open in shock. Thorin raised an eyebrow, noting with pleasure how Bilbo’s eyes were wide and entirely fixed on his straining muscles.

“Is there a problem gentlemen?” Thorin asked, nonchalant as he could. Dwalin chortled next to him.

“N-No, no, no goodness no,” babbled Bilbo a tad desperately, his cheeks turning a bright red. “There’s certainly no—that’s absolutely…goodness that’s, that’s an, an awful lot of, ah…meat.”

Mosco coughed and thumped Bilbo on the back, “That certainly _is_ , Bilbo. A real _prime_ cut,” he added with a leering wink. “Awful handy these dwarves are. I can see why you keep them around.” Bilbo was somewhat beyond that, eyes glued to the bulging dwarven muscle clearly visible through Thorin’s tunic.

“You take care now Bilbo,” called the butcher cheerfully, giving the dazed hobbit a slight nudge towards the door of the shop. “Best get all that home!”

“Y-yes, I’ll—yes,” said Bilbo, blinking rapidly and unconsciously licking his lips. “Goodness, this heat really is too much today, isn’t it?”

“Ye are awful red, lad,” pointed out Dwalin helpfully. He nudged Bilbo out the door after Thorin, who was walking proudly ahead, preening under the attention. Sods the both of them. 

“Must be the sun,” muttered Bilbo, dazed. 

“The sun my arse,” muttered Dwalin to himself. Or rather Thorin’s arse if he wanted to be precise about it. Bloody hopeless sods.

 

Xxx

 

The meat did in fact make it back to Bag End. It was a very smug Thorin who proudly carried as much of the load as Dwalin would let him back up the hill. 

Bilbo privately felt he had never made a better purchase. 

The dwarves thought they had never had any meal half so delicious as the feast they were treated to that night. 

Dwalin didn’t even mind all the shy flirting and meaningful glances going across the table, far too engrossed in the sheer bounty of deliciousness the hobbit had made for them, content to throw scraps at Groâk who was back from who knew where when he’d had his fill, and make short work of the jar of biscuits in the kitchen while Thorin and Bilbo were still making eyes at each other. Their loss.

 

And it was much later that night, when the dishes were done and his guests had retired, that Bilbo allowed himself to think on the most delicious sight he had been treated to that afternoon. Of tanned skin and thick, muscular arms covered in a pleasing layer of soft flesh. Of the coarse dark hair that had peaked out from the opened collar of Thorin’s shirt, the strong throat that lead up to an equally strong bearded jaw. Gentle blue eyes that gazed down so indulgently and kindly at him.

 _Dear hobbit_ he had called Bilbo. In that slow, meaningful way of his that gave such weight to his words, his eyes so soft and fond and very blue. In that rich, deep voice that sounded like the very core of the earth and great rolling clouds of thunder and the glow of embers all together at once. _Dear hobbit_ he said. 

Bilbo lay in bed that night with his ears flushed, heart pounding, his loose sleep clothes suddenly troublesomely tight around his hips and quietly panicked as he realized that he was in _so_ much trouble.

 

xxx

 

But, like all things, it eventually had to end.

“We have to leave.”

Bilbo stilled in his kneading for a moment, face carefully blank. They were making apple crumble, Thorin peeling the apples and Bilbo working together the crumble mixture in a large bowl. Dwalin was in the back garden, tending to some business with Groâk and leaving them with the kitchen to themselves.

“Of course,” Bilbo nodded, his heart sinking. It was silly to think otherwise, to get too attached when he knew all along his guests were only temporary. But it had been so _good_ to have his home full of life again, to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Too go through his father’s old cook books and make the dishes he remembered most fondly. 

To have someone to share that with. 

“When, when will you be…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off and he cleared his throat, loosing his words.

“The day after next,” answered Thorin after a pause. It wasn’t really a surprise. Thorin was almost back to perfect health and they had already stayed for the week Dwalin had arranged with the rest of his guard. There was no reason for them to linger any longer. Dwalin had been making plans and relaying orders most of the day with Groâk, the raven flying in and out and croaking in khuzdul before flying off again. Not even lingering long enough to harass the other occupants of the smial. It was time to go back to the Blue Mountains.

“I’ll have time to make you some provisions for the road then,” said Bilbo with a nod. “Good.”

“You are entirely too kind, Bilbo.”

“Nonsense. I’ve not had a chance to cook like this in a long time. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it.”

 

“Perhaps I’ll come visit you one day,” Bilbo mused slowly, after a few minutes of silent working. “The Blue Mountains aren’t so far away from the Shire after all. I am rather good with maps, I doubt I’ll get turned around and end up in Bree.”

His smile was a fragile, tentative thing, and Thorin felt like the very worst sort of cad to dampen it. “We’re not from the Blue Mountains,” he said, wishing suddenly that it wasn’t true, and that he was indeed a simple dwarf from Ered Luin after all. 

“O-Oh?” asked Bilbo, his voice faltering. “Where are you from, then?”

“Erebor.”

“Ah.” 

The smile froze on Bilbo’s face and he turned back to the counter, the stiffness in his shoulders giving him away. It felt like shards of diamond were being firmly ground into Thorin’s heart to see such obvious hurt in this small creature—to be the _cause_ of such hurt. The dwarf’s hands clenched tightly around the apple peeler, feeling the metal dig into his skin. 

“The ‘Lonely Mountain’, Erebor?” asked Bilbo. “I don’t suppose there’s a dwarf city in the Misty Mountains of the same name by any chance?” It was a poor attempt at of a joke, and Bilbo knew it just as well as Thorin did, from his strained expression and barely there quirk of a smile that somehow hurt worse than a frown would have.

“No. I’m afraid there isn’t,” Thorin managed.

A few moments of painful silence followed, the only sound that broke it was the peeler working away the skins of the apple. 

“It’s a very great Kingdom, your mountain, isn’t it?” asked Bilbo, the stiffness in his voice making Thorin want to bludgeon himself with a spoon.

“It is, yes,” he agreed softly. “Caverns filed with golden light, halls beneath halls stretching deep underground, lit by lanterns and glowing gems…” It was a few lines of poetry about Erebor that had come to him, only it did not translate to common as well as he had hoped.

“That sounds beautiful,” Bilbo said, a wistful tone to his voice. “I don’t suppose any hobbit has seen such a sight.”

A bright burning sprung up in Thorin’s chest, a fierce longing and hope so strong it nearly hurt to bear it. “I would like nothing more than to show you my home, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said earnestly.

And he meant it. To see this hobbit with his soft curling hair lit by the glowing light of the forges, to walk with him through the halls of his fathers, face aglow with golden light as he gazed upon the many wonders of Erebor. To have him comfortable and contented in Thorin’s home, enjoying all the luxuries the royal wing could offer.

Bilbo gave a real smile this time, gaze turning thoughtful. “It is an awfully long ways away. For a hobbit. But I am half Took,” he said, wagging a floury finger at Thorin. “Tooks are known for running off on adventures, you know. I’ve an uncle that ran off to sea. Folks around here say he must have drowned, but I suspect he’s still out there somewhere, sailing around on some great ship. If he can do that, a little walk surely isn’t too much of a bother.”

“You would come?” asked Thorin in wonder.

“If you would have me,” replied Bilbo with a shy smile. “After all, it’s only fair I see your home now that you’ve seen mine.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Thorin, grinning so widely it almost hurt. “I would like nothing better.”

“Well, that’s—good! That’s good that we’ve— that’s very good indeed. Only, I’m not entirely sure how I’d get there.”

“We’d be more than happy to send an armed escort with ye,” came Dwalin’s voice from the back door. They both jumped, noticing the bald dwarf leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. “Or pick you up on our way back from the Blue Mountains.” 

Bilbo looked back and forth between the two dwarves. “How long are you staying at the Blue Mounatins?”

“About a month or so,” said Dwalin casually. “We can have Groâk keep you in touch, and you can send us any messages as well. Nice and easy.”

“A month!” stuttered Bilbo, the reality of the situation hitting him all at once. “Goodness, that’s not much time at all!”

Thorin laid a comforting hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “We sprung this on you rather suddenly. It is a lot to think on. You needn’t answer now. But know if you cannot accompany us I can arrange another escort for you at a later time.” It pained Thorin to say as much when he so wished to take the hobbit with them. Yet he would not pressure Bilbo into making such a decision on the spur of the moment. 

“It, it’s very generous of you,” managed Bilbo.

Thorin shook his head, thinking of the strain the hardships of the road could have on such a gentle creature. “Not at all. Asking you to travel so far away is a great selfishness. I would dearly love for you to see my home, but the road can be dangerous and unpredictable, and there won’t be any—“

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll…what?”

“I’ll go.”

“Thank Mahal for that,” muttered Dwalin.

Bilbo’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’m coming with you to Erebor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not used to writing so much fluff. It's _hard!_ Everything is just working out so nicely for them.
> 
> ...Sure would be a shame...if something was to _happen_... 
> 
> >:D
> 
> (I'm not going to kill anyone. There are some angtsy times ahead though, so don't get too used to the domestic fluff)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rain had to come eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still so completely overwhelmed with all positive comments and kudos this fic is getting, I don't even know what to say. You guys are awesome <3
> 
> (btw, I tend to reply to most comments just before or after I upload a new chapter, so just a heads up there).
> 
> Warnings: Some angsty times ahead. Depression, mentions of depression.

Rain pelted down, drops sliding across the glass of the window and pooling onto the pane. The hobbit leaned against the glass, nestled in the window seat and peered out dully at the damp gloom of Hobbiton. A forgotten and long cooled cup of tea sat off to his left, and dishes from the night before were stacked on the small table in the sitting room, in need of washing. 

It had only been a few days since Thorin and Dwalin had left for the Blue Mountains, and with them it seemed they had taken whatever lively cheer they had brought to the smial. The familiar halls seemed too empty and hollow with only one occupant, quiet and still as he was.

Bilbo sighed, his fingers idly worrying a necklace of leather cord, a single bead strung through the only adornment.

_Soon_ , he thought to himself, his hand curling tightly around the bead.

For better or worse.

 

Xxx

 

On the day the dwarves left Bag End, the humidity finally broke and the rain that had been threatening to fall all week came pouring down.

That morning had found Bilbo fussing and worrying over both dwarves, making sure they had enough food for their journey and that their packs were stowed nice and tightly. Every few minutes he would dart outside to peer at the pre-dawn sky anxiously before dashing back inside to grab one more thing his guests may need. Hamfast had said the rain would come today, and though the sky looked innocent enough at the early hour a Gamgee’s prediction was never to be doubted about the weather. 

“Well,” started Bilbo, and stopped, surveying the two dwarves standing in his doorway. They looked more than ready to go tromping out the door in their great metal boots, packs full to bursting, weapons securely strapped to their bodies. Out into the wild and out of the Shire they’d go. Back to their home. Or at least another mountain. “Well,” he said again, biting his lip. “I suppose this is it, then.”

“For a few weeks, aye,” said Dwalin, hefting his pack. “You won’t be rid of us that easily, laddie.”

“Oh _good,_ ” said Bilbo with a laugh. “I should certainly hope not! I’ve grown rather fond of the both of you.”

“Bilbo,” started Thorin, his eyes warm as he gazed down at the hobbit. “I cannot begin to thank you enough. For everything you’ve done, your kindness, your hospitality. I will be forever grateful to have spent these days with you, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Oh, please. It was my pleasure, truly,” flustered Bilbo, flapping a hand at the dwarf. “Both of you are very much welcome to come and stay with me any time—any at all! Even if you’re ill again and throw up in my garden. I promise I’ll only be a little cross.”

Dwalin chuckled and clapped Bilbo on the back. “You’re a good soul, Baggins. Same goes to you. If you happen to be near the Blue Mountains and swoon in a bloody field we’ll come and get ye, no mistake. It’s our turn to host anyhow.” 

Bilbo grinned, “I’ll try to pass on that, shall I? Though I _do_ look forward to getting to repay your hospitality. I’m supposed to buy food for the host as a sign of appreciation, right? A time-honored tradition, isn’t it?” asked Bilbo innocently, smirking as Dwalin groaned and Thorin studiously avoided his gaze. 

“It’s ah, a dwarven thing,” Thorin muttered unconvincingly.

“Tradition of ours,” added Dwalin. “Wouldn’t be fair to expect ye to follow it, lad. Being a hobbit and all. No need for it.”

“Is that so?” drawled Bilbo.

“Indeed,” affirmed Thorin with a nod.

“Mmmhmm,” Bilbo gave them a look. “Well, you know what they say, when in Bree and all.” 

They looked at Bilbo blankly. 

Bilbo looked back at them. 

He frowned. 

“It’s a saying? ‘When in Bree, do as the Bree-folk do’, you know?”

No response from the dwarves. 

“Because some of their ways are different from ours and it’s best to follow local custom so as to not offend anyone,” Bilbo explained with a sigh. “Within reason of course. It’s no excuse for poor behavior.”

“Ah,” said Dwalin and Thorin together.

“So if I’m to be traveling with dwarves to a dwarven kingdom it would only be right to learn more about your customs and traditions. I shouldn’t like to make a right fool of myself, or, I don’t know. End up challenging someone to a duel when I mean to compliment their cooking. Something like that. It would be a terribly embarrassing way to go.”

Thorin frowned heavily. “You won’t need to fear for your safety in my mountain,” he said lowly. “No dwarf will harm you, Bilbo.”

“Like bugger they will,” scoffed Dwalin, crossing his arms. “Like to see ‘em try.”

“Gracious,” stuttered Bilbo, rather taken aback. “That’s, that’s very kind of you indeed, but I’m sure it won’t be necessary. I should still like to know more about dwarves, and what sorts of things I should or shouldn’t do in any event. Best to avoid violent confrontation in the first place.”

Dwalin nodded. “We’ll teach you about our customs on the road, how’s that? Get you all nice and prepped for dwarven society. Dinning with the important folk and all.” Dwalin shot a meaningful glance at Thorin who gave a slow nod and cleared his throat. 

“Speaking of traditions.” Thorin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “There is something I would give you.”

“Oh no, I was only joking,” said Bilbo in dismay. “Truly, I don’t require any kind of payment.” 

“No, it’s not payment,” assured Thorin. “There is something I wish you to have.” 

Bilbo frowned as Thorin reached down into a pocket. “Thorin, I’m going to be terribly cross if it’s gold or some priceless treasure.” 

Instead of answering, the dwarf withdrew his hand from his pocket, his fist closed around something small. Bilbo shot a quick look at Dwalin for help but the dwarf only looked back expectantly, nodding his head meaningfully at Thorin. “This is—I would have you take this, Bilbo,” said Thorin. With a deep breath he opened his hand, revealing the gleaming bead in his palm. 

The bead was of mithril silver, deep lines of obsidian running through it in angular shapes and runes. A sapphire was set on either side of the bead, in Durin blue.

Bilbo gaped, staring down at the beautiful bead with wide eyes. “Oh Thorin…” he managed. “You can’t give me this. It’s far too much!”

“It isn’t,” insisted Thorin, his heart pounding away loudly in his chest. “Take it as a…a token. Of my friendship—of our friendship.” Dwalin made some strangled noise beside him, knowing very well _exactly_ what that bead was. 

It had been Thorin’s Grandfather’s bead originally, made as a courting gift for his Grandmother and passed down to him. For now it was indeed a sign of affection, of friendship between Bilbo and he. It signified the worth of the wearer and would tell any who saw it that Bilbo was under the protection of the Line of Durin and was to be respected as such.

Of course, if this bead were to be braided into those curly locks—in a specific four-stranded braid by Thorin’s hands—and should Bilbo put the same braid in Thorin’s own hair—then it was as plain a sign of courtship as there could be, as well as an embarrassingly romantic gesture.

There was a loud croaking laugh from Groâk who had flown in at some point and was now hovering around like the nuisance he was. “Friendship!” the raven chortled gleefully, swooping out the window in a flurry of feathers. Thorin felt his ears heat up but stood firm, refusing to back down.

Bilbo watched the dwarf quietly for a moment. There was something fragile and vulnerable in Thorin’s face, and a sudden fierce desire to _protect_ awoke within the hobbit at the sight of it. “Of course I’ll accept it,” said Bilbo firmly. “You silly dwarf, of _course_. I value our friendship too.” Thorin stared at the hobbit with something akin to wonder, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled. 

“Good.” Thorin placed the bead in Bilbo’s palm, a warmth growing in his chest at the sight of it there, so large in the hobbit’s small hand.

“You’ll need a braid for that. In your hair.” added Dwalin helpfully when the two seemed happy enough to stand there smiling at each other like idiots. 

“Oh,” Bilbo blinked. “I don’t—I’m afraid I’ve never braided any hair quite as short as my own before. Or used a bead with it.”

“Thorin could do it for you,” Dwalin said innocently. 

“Dwalin!” Thorin elbowed Dwalin in the side hard, the guard merely snickering to himself. 

“How, how about you put it in for me once we’re on the road?” asked Bilbo, imagining those large hands brushing through his hair, Thorin’s face close as he worked. It sent a tingle through his body at the thought of it, and he licked his lips. “It will be something to look forward to while you’re gone and I’m busy packing. A promise of sorts.”

“A promise,” agreed Thorin quietly, nodding. “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Excellent!” beamed Bilbo, carefully tucking the bead away into his waistcoat pocket. “Oh!” he cried suddenly, startling the dwarves. “Dear me! I’d nearly forgotten—stay right there!” Bilbo bolted from the doorway and ran down the hall, returning a few moments later out of breath and clutching two packages in his hands. “I have something for you both as well.”

Thorin’s eyes widened as he found a rectangular shaped object pressed into his hands. It was fairly small and was covered in a leather cloth. He gently unwrapped it and found the same book of hobbit tales he had been reading the past week. 

“You seemed to enjoy them well enough,” Bilbo was saying, watching him shyly, “and I thought it might keep you company on the road. I wasn’t sure if you’d finished all of them or not and it would be a terrible shame not to at this point.”

Thorin clutched the book close to his chest, thumbing the worn cover gently. “I-I will treasure this,” he said, at a loss. The book had belonged to Bilbo’s father and was obviously very dear to the hobbit. That Bilbo was willing to give it to him… “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. Bilbo smiled crookedly at him, his eyes kind. The sight sent Thorin’s heart tripping over itself. 

“You are very welcome,” Bilbo said gently. “And Dwalin, there’s already some in both of your packs, but these biscuits here are just for you—don’t you let Thorin have _any_ of them, they’re all yours!” 

Dwalin opened his bag and immediately snatched up a biscuit, taking a huge bite out of it and groaning appreciatively. Bilbo laughed as the dwarf shoved the rest of it in his mouth, clutching the bag to his chest possessively as he chewed.

“Righ’ treasure you are,” Dwalin said around a mouth full of biscuits

They stood there for a moment, Thorin carefully wrapping his book back in the leather cloth and stowing it in his pack, and Dwalin shoving another biscuit in his mouth.

“Well…” Bilbo said a third time, drinking in the sight of the two dwarves standing in his doorway. 

While he knew he would be seeing them again in only a few weeks he couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was goodbye. Of a more final sort. 

Perhaps he had said goodbye a time too many recently, and to have it before him once again was too much for his nerves. It was likely he was blowing everything out of proportion, just waiting for some further harm to come to him, expecting it where it had no right to be. _Borrowing trouble_ as his father used to say. 

Nonsense, the whole thing he thought irritably, and shook himself.

“I’ll see you soon,” he settled on. Thorin shuffled closer, opening his arms slightly to hug the hobbit.

Bilbo lunged forward and caught Thorin in a tight embrace, burying his face against the dwarf’s chest and just breathing in his scent, basking in the warmth of him up close. Thorin’s arms came around him, holding him close and nosing affectionately at his curls. 

“Be safe,” said Bilbo, partially muffled by the thick dwarven tunic.

“You as well,” rumbled Thorin, his large hands running across the hobbit’s back carefully. Eventually they separated, though Thorin kept his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, gazing down at him as if trying to memorize every detail. 

“I’ll miss you terribly,” said Bilbo, knowing it to be true. “Both of you!”

He broke away from Thorin’s grip to smile warmly at Dwalin, trying his hardest to ignore pleased tingle that went through him as Thorin’s hands trialed down his arms leaving heat in their wake.

Dwalin puffed up his chest proudly and held out one giant paw of a hand, inclining his head in a courtly manner. “A pleasure, Master Baggins,” he said, in his best imitation of hobbit propriety. Bilbo laughed and bypassed the hand, tackling the dwarf around the middle. Dwalin froze for a moment before letting out a pleased chuckle. He hugged the hobbit back carefully. “I’ll miss ye too, laddie,” he rumbled, ruffling Bilbo’s curls.

“Look after Thorin for me, will you?” asked Bilbo with a grin.

Dwalin winked. “That’s my job, laddie. And you, give us a shout if anything comes up. We’ll send Groâk around to keep you in touch. No backing out now, eh?” 

“Certainly not!” huffed Bilbo. “Go on then. I won’t have you be late on my account.”

They finally shuffled off, with many a wave and a promise of seeing him soon. Bilbo stood on his front porch and waved until they were out of sight, looking out over the hills and paths of his home, the morning sun just rising and casting a faint golden glow over everything.

 

When he finally took himself inside he dug out his old traveling pack and bedroll, and sat down in the middle of the hallway scrawling out a list of what he needed to pack on a scrap of paper.

 

A few hours later the rain began.

It started off as a gentle tapping against the windows, the wind picking up and blowing through the trees like waves. Then clouds rolled in properly and turned it into a true summer downpour by midday. The sky outside had turned nearly dark under the sudden onslaught, heavy drops of rain thundering down and splashing against the glass.

Bilbo sighed and rose to his feet, padding silently through his smial. He lent against the wall and closed his eyes, letting the sound of the rain wash over him. A bolt of lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating his smial in bright white before flickering out. 

Surely they were at Needlehole by now. Unless they had taken another route? Or already passed it. Maybe they wouldn’t bother stopping for the rain, downpour or no.

A cool breeze swept by, filling his nose with the scent of rich, damp earth and he realized belatedly the window above the kitchen sink was still open. 

Bilbo made himself some tea and sat down on a chair. He watched the rain run down the glass casting strange shadows on the walls and floor. His packing was left in a forgotten pile in the hall.

 

Xxx

 

The days blended into one another after that, each overcast rainy day fading into the next, typical of the summer storms that swept through the Shire. 

While the cooler air was a relief, Bilbo found himself missing the overbearing heat. Those few blazing hot days felt more like half-remembered dream, some memory from another life despite it being less than a week past. Yet there was still the pile of things to pack in the middle of the hall that Bilbo added to every so often, and Groâk swooped in every couple of days to croak at him and nip at his curls, telling him of the dwarves’ progress and exchanging small greetings. Each time the raven stopped by a part of Bilbo settled, made him believe just a little more that everything really had happened and that he really was going to join his friends in just a few weeks time.

Some days found the hobbit with a sudden surge of energy, writing up letters to relatives to inform them of his impending trip, going through his pantry and sorting through what would keep and what needed to go before he left, picking through his wardrobe and trying to figure out what would be suitable for visiting a dwarven kingdom on the far side of the map. 

Bilbo was no experienced traveler, and stories and books could only do so much to advise him on what to bring on such a venture. His well-stocked wardrobe was beginning to feel wholly inadequate when faced with such a challenge, and he often ended up trying everything on only to put it all away again in a huff.

Other days found Bilbo tucked away in bed long into the afternoon, watching the rain through his window and dozing on and off. Sometimes he would get up only to throw together something to eat and crawl back to bed. Other times he ended up slumped on the couch, or on the rug in front of the cold fireplace, unwilling to light it even when night fell. 

This was the edge of something, he felt. 

An end lurked before him, or a beginning. Some of both intermingled perhaps, but whatever it was, it frightened and excited him in turns. He was waiting it felt, only for what he wasn’t sure. Part of him trembled with excitement and the chance of adventure, travel with friends to an exotic kingdom—and another part was saying goodbye, shutting down and closing off, preparing for a long sleep with very little to get up for.

It was no good fretting, he told himself sternly, even as he stood on his front porch and looked out to the distant horizon shrouded in mist, rain dripping from his curls. No good fretting at all. What would happen would happen, and he’d best be ready for it.

It just had been such a long while since anything had gone right. 

_It’s dangerous to get your hopes up_ , he told himself, thoughts of blue eyes and soft smiles flitting through his head. But he didn’t think there’d ever been anything he’d wanted more than…well. That. 

 

He turned the heavy bead over in his hand, tracing the angular carvings and runes, wondering and wishing for something he was afraid to put a name to.

And the rain kept on, giving way to mist and fog, the odd few hours of sunshine passing by occasionally before a light drizzle started up again. 

Soon, Bilbo promised himself.

 

Xxx

 

Two weeks after Dwalin and Thorin had left, Groâk swooped into Bag End’s open kitchen window and landed on Bilbo’s shoulder in a flutter of wet feathers and flying specks of water.

“Oh, hullo Groâk!” greeted Bilbo, looking up from the mess strewn around him on the floor. He was knelt in the hallway, his pack open and empty with piles of clothes laid out and half folded surrounding him. “I think I’ve just about decided what clothes to pack. It only took a fortnight but better late than never! Are you hungry? It must be well past tea-time by now—“

“Bilbo,” croaked the raven, shifting uneasily on his shoulder and nipping at the hobbit’s curls to get his attention.

The raven stuck out his leg without his usual flourish, ruffling his feathers uncomfortably. “Hmm? Is that a letter?” asked Bilbo, reaching out to untie the little metal cylinder attached to the raven’s leg. “Oh good,” he muttered, fishing out the scroll of parchment within and unrolling it. “I was wondering if they’d gotten the… last one about…” he trailed off, going unnaturally still as he read.

>   
>  _My dear Bilbo,_
> 
> _We have just received word of an attack on Erebor. Three days ago a cold drake from the north besieged the mountain, a host of orcs following in its wake. They were unsuccessful in their attempt to take Erebor, but the siege is ongoing. My father has called me back with all haste._
> 
> _I must go to him._
> 
> _As I write this, Dwalin and myself are in the stables readying to ride back with a small host from the Blue Mountains. We leave as soon as everyone is mounted and ready._
> 
> _It pains me greatly, but we will be unable to meet with you after all._
> 
> _I am so sorry, dearest hobbit. I cannot tell you how often my thoughts are with you in your smial, nor how often these past few weeks I’ve thought eagerly of our meeting again. Your book has brought me great comfort, though I dare not read it on the road should the weather continue to be so poor. When I am back in my mountain I fear all I will think of is how you could have been with me there, how I would have shown you my home, every comfort it could offer._
> 
> _When Erebor is safe again I will come for you. This I promise you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, or may Mahal strike me dead where I stand._
> 
> _that is if you still wish to come at a later date and at a time of your convenience and choosing of course I wouldn’t force you to do anything that I only meant if you would wish I would be more than happy to_
> 
> _We are leaving now. My people are strong and hardy, the fight will be mostly over by the time we make it to the mountain but it will take some time to properly secure the area and wipe out any stragglers from the main host. Even a few lone orcs can be dangerous to passing travelers, and I would see the roads safe again._
> 
> _In this alone I am glad you will not be with us. I would not have you in such danger for all the gold and precious gems in all the mountains of the world._
> 
> _Be well, my very dear hobbit. I shall keep my memories of my time with you close in these coming months, and hope that one day we will meet again. Soon I hope, I cannot but wish_
> 
> _I will write you when I can, though our ravens will be kept busy and even Groâk will not be spared to visit you._
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Thorin son of Thrain_  
> 

“Oh…” the words were becoming blurry. Bilbo blinked, trying to clear his vision and realized his hands were shaking. Groâk clucked softly beside him, nudging his beak against Bilbo’s face gently. 

“A, a cold drake?” asked Bilbo, turning to the raven helplessly. “Does that, does that _happen?_ In Erebor? Cold drakes and orcs just come out of nowhere and attack?”

“Aye,” Groâk said, fluffing his wings. “Cold drakes are less common. Dwarves are strong,” he chirped, giving a solid hop. “Erebor is impenetrable! Built to defend against dragons. They’ll regret it. Not a chance of taking the mountain.”

“How awful!” managed Bilbo, imagining his own home in the Shire under attack. Memories of the fell winter came to mind, when a small host of orcs and wolves had fallen upon the Shire near a decade ago. It left him feeling cold inside, terrified and offended on behalf of his friends that such a things were happening to them. 

“It’s their home,” he said, hands clenching. “How dare those horrible creatures try to take it from them!”

“Orcs aren’t very smart,” agreed Groâk, tickling Bilbo with his feathers. “Dwarves will be fine. They were sorry they couldn’t take you along,” he added, nipping at Bilbo’s curls again.

“That’s, that’s quite understandable,” Bilbo said faintly, beginning to feel nauseous. It felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him. All that building excitement and anticipation was suddenly doused, like a shock of ice water leaving him numb and shivering. 

He looked about the hallway, his clothes strewn everywhere, his pack open. There were letters he had half written and some sent, explaining his coming absence and excusing himself from any social obligations. His pantry was already mostly cleared out in preparation, some bags of potatoes and turnips set aside to give to Hamfast as a way of thanking him for watching over Bag End while he was away. The bead around his neck was a sudden dead weight, and he clutched at it desperately, needing something to anchor him.

It looked like he wouldn’t be seeing his dwarves after all.

The hobbit bit his lip, feeling a sob welling up inside his chest. Everything crashed into him at once, everything that he had so wanted and now couldn’t have—

It had been so foolish to hope things would go well. 

“—ilbo!”

“Bilbo!”

Groâk outright screeched at him, finally getting the hobbit’s attention. “They’ll have to pass by Bree. They’ll be there in four days.” Bilbo looked at the raven dully, uncomprehending. Groâk huffed and pulled at his curls again.

“Four days!” screeched the raven, flapping his wings irritably. “Bree in four days!” and with that he shot out the window and out into the blue-grey gloom of the afternoon.

_What good does that do me_ , thought Bilbo miserably, wiping at his stinging eyes with the heel of his palm. Thorin would be at Bree in four days. Tantalizingly close to the Shire. On his way to fight off orcs and cold drakes and who knew what horrible creatures would want to attack a mountain of dwarves. 

It was awful to think how close Thorin would be to the Shire. 

Bree was only a few days travel away from Hobbiton. Bilbo remembered well enough from when he was a tween and had gone himself—

He froze, eyes widening. 

Four days.

_Four days._

With a squawk of alarm he erupted into action, hastily scrunching up the letter and shoving it into his breast pocket, frantically shoving everything into his pack as fast as he could.

 

A handful of minutes later the door to Bag End banged open, one Bilbo Baggins emerging, eyes wild, a full pack and travel gear strapped to his back with an old cloak thrown haphazardly overtop. He kicked the door shut with a hairy foot, locked it, and was off like a shot, running down the hill and through the wet grass, uncaring as he skidded and slipped his way down, jumping over puddles and low fences alike.

He had just four days to get to Bree. Four days to catch up to his dwarves and go on an adventure. 

Face splitting into a wild grin, he ran.

 

Xxx

 

Bilbo ran and ran and ran, and when he couldn’t run he marched determinedly on, despite the rain that continued to fall in buckets and drip down the back of his coat and into his pack. 

He took all the shortcuts he could think of, jumping fences into famer’s fields and sloshing ruggedly through marsh and bog alike. When he’d just come of age, several of his Took relations had taken him on a cross-country pub crawl from Hobbiton to as far as Bree to celebrate, and Bilbo now pulled up all of his memories of that trip as best he could to get him where he needed to be. 

He stayed the nights at inns when he could, scandalizing his fellow hobbits when he walked in well past dark, covered in wet grass and mud, absolutely soaked but still smiling—and then left the next morning scarcely after a meager first breakfast. _Poor Mister Baggins_ , some muttered as Bilbo almost cheerfully made off into the rain with his pack and bedroll strapped to his back. They shook their heads sadly at the poor boy who’d shown so much promise, but had clearly been unable to cope with his loneliness and cracked. His reputation was the furthest thing on Bilbo’s mind however, his thoughts instead on a dwarf with dark hair and a shy smile.

Something wild and Tookish had awoken within him, the call of adventure singing through his veins louder than it ever had as a young tween. It beat alongside his heart as he ran, growing louder and stronger with each step he took, each mile further away from home he traveled.

 

_Hold on Thorin_ , he thought to himself. 

_I’m coming with you!_

 

Xxx

 

It was a thoroughly grim group of dwarves that rode down through the wild foothills towards Bree. The road to Erebor was long and a battle could be waiting for them at the end of it. They rode swiftly, the rain and mud pressing them on ever faster, their sturdy rams easily finding footing despite the poor conditions. There were no fires at night and few songs. Meals were eaten from atop their rams, dried meat and cram the staple of their traveling diet. This was a company of warriors answering the call to defend their home. Comfort was a thing of the past.

Those few days spent in the Shire seemed a lifetime ago to Thorin, a shinning memory of kindness and warmth that he held close against the cold and wet of the road.

As soon as he had stepped out on the pathway from Bag End’s door, a feeling of wrongness had settled over Thorin, that had only worsened. Each step further away from Bilbo increased his discomfort, becoming a dull ache in his chest that troubled him even now. 

“Come on,” Dwalin had said as they made their way down the hill, cuffing the back of his head. “Stop dragging yer heels and moping. The sooner we get to the Blue Mountains the sooner we can come back.”

Thorin had rallied, filling his thoughts instead with what he would do when they met Bilbo again, how the hobbit would find life on the road and in their company again.

The missive from Erebor had been like a knife to his gut. The thought of his home and people besieged while he was too far to be of use had hurt bitterly, filling him with a burning need to charge back to Erebor and destroy anything that stood against his City. 

And then he remembered of the hobbit he would be forced to leave behind and thought he would break.

Even now his thoughts strayed almost as much to Bilbo as they did to Erebor. The book of hobbit tales was kept wrapped tight in its waterproof covering, for as dearly as Thorin would have liked to page through the book again he would not see it come to harm in the constant rain. So it rested in an inner pocket of his coat, a solid weight next to his heart that he brushed against now and then.

Now more than ever did he find himself disoriented, his life-long ailment more of a hindrance than ever before. It near constantly sent him veering from the path. Dwalin had taken to riding within an arm’s-length of Thorin, reaching out to tug at the Prince when he began to stray from the path. 

It was frustrating and distracting and the dull throb in his chest only seemed to get worse. Thorin didn’t know if he had ever felt so utterly torn before, felt that he needed so badly to be in two places at once.

But he was the Crown Prince of Erebor, and Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror put his duty to his mountain and to his people first before any selfish want of his own. No matter how it burned inside him.

Tonight found Thorin rising from his bedroll, unable to sleep. He walked just beyond the edge of camp, seeking some privacy while he relived himself. Yet once he was done, turning around and going back to camp suddenly seemed impossible.

He stared out into the darkness of the woods before him, something calling him, that insistent tug in his chest trying to lead him away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against it. 

He would not follow.

Dwalin found him standing there some time later, gazing intently back the way they had came, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. The guard sighed, taking one look at Thorin’s face and pulling him around in an embrace. He knocked their foreheads together.

“We’ll get him back, laddie,” said Dwalin gruffly. Thorin took a shuddering breath but said nothing, not trusting his voice. “Once the mountains’ safe again we’ll get your hobbit. Probably for the best he’s not coming.” Dwalin gave Thorin’s shoulder a small shake. “Wouldn’t be able to show him much with a siege on, would we? This way we’ll have the place all tidied up and shiny for the little thing, eh? Get yerself all prettied up too. He’ll like that, no mistake.”

Thorin huffed, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “We’ll have to inform the kitchens. There’ll be a welcoming feast in his honour.”

“Oh aye,” agreed Dwalin, keeping his arm around his friend’s shoulders and walking them back to camp. “And as many meals a day as he wants. Show him some real dwarven hospitality, eh?”

“Only the best.”

“Of course! We can’t let him win. We’ll be even better hosts than he was, just wait. Got a whole mountain to spoil him on, the hobbit won’t even know what hit him.”

Thorin chuckled softly, fully aware Dwalin was trying to cheer him up and grateful to the warrior for doing so. His heart was a little lighter when he lay down in his bedroll again. 

There was much he wished for when Bilbo came to his mountain.

 

Xxx

 

“Excuse me.”

The innkeeper looked over the counter, leaning further down when he caught sight of a small head of curls that just barely reached the top. 

“Hullo there little master,” he said pleasantly, for hobbits tended to be respectable and well-mannered folk, and he was always glad to have them stay at his inn. “What can I do for you?”

Bilbo licked his dry lips. “Could you tell me if you’ve seen a large group of dwarves lately? Or if you’ve heard anything about such a group passing by?”

“Well now I have!” exclaimed the man. “Some twenty of them, all geared up for battle by the look of it.”

“They’re here?” asked Bilbo hopefully, rising up on his toes to try and see better over the crowd of big folk. 

“Just a couple hours past, aye. Left just after midday they did. Awfully grim looking bunch, rode off in a right hurry. On rams! Great armored ones! Not often we get to see those around here, even with as many dwarves that do pass through these parts. Was a bit funny looking, them being so small and fierce and all—no offense meant little master—but they know their business I’ll wager. Will you be looking for some supper tonight? A room maybe? We have some very nice hobbit sized rooms just for little folk such as yourself.”

“…Oh,” Bilbo said faintly. “Oh, Thank you, no. The, the dwarves left, you said?”

“Aye, around noon they did.” The innkeeper nodded and frowned as the hobbit’s face fell. “Is something the matter?” he asked lowly. “Did you have some business with those dwarves?”

“I—“ Bilbo bit his lip. “It doesn’t…thank you.” He gave a polite nod to the man and walked back out into the rain, pulling up his sopping wet hood, oblivious to the concerned look the innkeeper was sending after him.

He’d _missed_ them. 

He’d run as fast as he could, even dared part of the Old Forest and the very borders of the Barrow Downs in a dangerous short cut to make it in time—and he’d _missed_ them. By only a few short hours.

They were gone. 

_Thorin_ was gone.

It was only half a day. Perhaps he could catch up? 

Surely they would have stopped for the night by now, allowing him to find them before they broke camp in the morning? But Bilbo was no tracker, and running through the dangerous wilds in the dark and rain by himself would put him in a bigger mess then he already was in. He worried his lip.

Rangers could track. 

If he could get a ranger to help him he’d be able to find the dwarves. Assuming they could catch up before the group started moving again, that was. They were on rams apparently, and riding with great haste. Who knew if it was even possible to catch them up on foot?

And suppose he did catch them. What then? 

Would he just march merrily into their camp, a lone hobbit among a small army of dwarves? In the dead of night? Just waltz right in and expect…what?

What exactly had he been expecting? 

Surprise? Delight? Welcome? 

Thorin’s warm arms around him again?

No. 

He scoffed bitterly and sloshed through a puddle, head down, not caring where he was going. His stomach twisted away, his throat tightening with sudden emotion that threatened to choke him. He swallowed against it. 

It had been a stupid, _stupid_ idea from a foolish hobbit who’d been so desperate and starved for affection he’d latched onto the first person who’d shown him any kindness and read far _far_ more into things than he had any right to.

_You are a fool, Bilbo Baggins_ he told himself sternly, his heart sinking all the way down to his muddy, wet toes. He hadn’t thought this through at all—had barely thought at all for the last few days, too caught up in the thrill of the chase and a challenge before him (and the dwarf waiting for him at the end). He’d charged off like some silly lovesick tween, all Took impetuousness and not a single lick of sense. 

And look where it had gotten him! 

He was in Bree, alone, surrounded by strange big-folk, and it was well past dark. He’d missed Valar only knew how many meals and now his stomach was feeling hollow and empty. Mud splattered his clothing, not even washing out under the rain that continued to fall, soaking through everything until he was completely drenched with it. His eyes pricked and he sniffed, reaching into his pocket. Hand closing around nothing, he realized with a sudden horror that he’d forgotten his handkerchief at home.

A small sound of misery escaped him and he huddled in on himself, walking faster as if he could physically distance himself from his woes. 

 

And smacked face first into something large and solid.

The force of the impact sent him reeling, and he would have fallen had an arm not shot out and caught him. For it was a person he had collided with. A very tall person. Wearing a grey robe and a large pointy hat.

“Gandalf,” breathed Bilbo in surprise. For it was Gandalf of all people he’d literally run into.

“Why, Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf exclaimed, pulling the hobbit upright and looking him over with a searching eyes. “Whatever are you doing in Bree on a night like this?” Bilbo opened his mouth. “Oh never mind that now! Not a word before we’ve gotten some food into you. And gotten out of this rain! Really, a Baggins tramping around in this wretched weather—during suppertime! I’m surprised at you, Bilbo. It’s one thing to be adventurous but quite another to take leave of your good hobbit sense!”

Bilbo found himself quickly swept off and bustled into an inn. Before he really knew what had happened he was sat down at a table, a generous spread of food laid out before him, a hot mug of tea by his elbow.

“There, that’s better,” said Gandalf with a sigh, sitting down across from him. He dug out his pipe from the depths of his robe and lit it with a flash of sparks from his fingers, sending Bilbo a quick wink when the hobbit startled. “Do eat up, my dear fellow. And I think you had better tell me what happened and why you were sulking about in the rain.”

So Bilbo did, the whole story slowly pouring out of him in starts and fits while he ate his meal, not having realized he was quite as hungry as he was. Gandalf for his part was silent through the hobbit’s story, allowing him to speak before asking any questions and only interrupting once to clarify the name of the dwarf Bilbo had met out in the field.

“Thorin, you said?” Gandalf asked, bushy eyebrows rising almost comically on hearing the name.

“Mmm,” agreed Bilbo, finishing the last of his tea. Gandalf promptly flagged down a waiter, the man plopping a tankard of ale down in front of the hobbit. “Thank you,” Bilbo said with a smile, taking a sip of the frothy liquid. “Thorin son of Thrain, I believe.”

“Thorin son of Thrain,” said Gandalf carefully. He leaned forward in his seat. “Are you quite certain that was his name? Think carefully!”

“Well, yes.” Bilbo blinked, a bit taken aback. “You don’t hear many dwarven names in the Shire. I think I’d remember one as foreign as that. Why do you ask? Do you—oh, do you know Thorin?”

Gandalf sat back in his seat and hummed to himself, suddenly looking most pleased. “Would he happen to have long dark hair, a close-cropped beard, blue eyes, a striking nose and a rather brooding demeanor? Rather tall I believe you’d find him? With a terrible sense of direction,” finished the wizard with a chuckle. 

“You _do_ know him!” exclaimed Bilbo happily. 

“Indeed, I’ve known your Thorin since he was but a child,” nodded Gandalf, an amused twinkle in his eye. “A fine dwarf, if a bit sullen and withdrawn. Not quick to trust but once he is won over no finer friend could you wish for. Now please, do go on with your story. I should like to hear what you made of the fellow,” said Gandalf, his eyes twinkling as if he knew some great secret.

So Bilbo continued with his tale, the wizard listening intently all the while.

“…And once Groâk gave me the letter and told me they’d be in Bree in four days time, I…well, I just packed my bag and ran.” Bilbo sighed, his fingers worrying the handle of his tankard. “And here I am.”

“So you are,” agreed Gandalf, eyeing the hobbit with some concern. It was obvious to the wizard the strain that this small soul had been through recently; the heavy bags under his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the hunched way he sat as if to protect his heart from a blow. It worried Gandalf greatly, to see such a spirit brought so low.

“It was a silly idea, really,” continued Bilbo, the corner of his mouth tugging up into something resembling a smile. “What would I do in a company of dwarves off to battle? What help could I be? I suppose my head’s been all over the place and my heart hasn’t been much better.” The hobbit stared into his mug dully. “I got so caught up with the idea that I let it carry me away. And made a right fool of myself.”

“Nonsense!”

Bilbo blinked, looking up in surprise at the wizard’s tone. “Sorry?”

“Absolute nonsense, dear boy,” said Gandalf firmly. He reached across the table and placed his hand over Bilbo’s, giving it a squeeze. “What you did was done out of honest affection, and no small amount of courage. That should always be applauded.”

Bilbo huffed a laugh. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t foolish.”

“Hmm, perhaps not,” agreed Gandalf, his eyes gleaming. He patted Bilbo’s hand before withdrawing his. “Perhaps it’s the Took in you. Though Bagginses have always been firm in matters of the heart.”

The hobbit made a small sound at that, a blush creeping over his features. He avoided the wizard’s eye, hand reaching up unconsciously to worry a lone bead worn around his neck. Gandalf smiled to himself, pleased that his assumptions had proven true.

“That being said, I think I should like to help you, Bilbo.”

“Oh?” Bilbo looked up at that, smiling tiredly at the wizard. “That’s very kind Gandalf, but you’ve already done so much. I can make it back to the Shire easy enough on my own.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Why ever would you want to go back to the Shire? What of Erebor?”

Bilbo froze, staring up at Gandalf with wide eyes. Hope began to build in his chest. “You mean…”

“Indeed, Erebor.” Gandalf nodded, his eyes twinkling. “This news of an attack on the Lonely Mountain is most troubling, and by a cold drake no less. It’s been some time since I’ve last been to Erebor and perhaps my help might be appreciated. I’ll head out tomorrow morning I should think, and I was planning to offer to take you along on my horse, but if you’d rather go back to the Shire—“

“Oh Gandalf, thank you!” cried Bilbo, springing to his feet and launching himself at the old man, hugging him tightly. He buried his face in the soft grey fabric of the wizard’s robe, the smell of pipe weed and wood smoke filling his nose. “Thank you so much!”

Gandalf chuckled and ran a hand over the hobbit’s curls fondly. “It’s really the least I could do. Now come, finish your supper and then off to bed. We’ve a long day ahead of us if we’re to catch up these dwarves of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to do this, but I'll probably be putting this fic on hiatus for a while. Last year around October I decided to would write a spooky bagginshield fic and have the last chapter uploaded on Halloween. I got about four chapters in and then got hit with a really awful writers block. So the new plan is to get it done for _this_ Halloween instead! I'm sure you've all noticed I'm not a very fast writer (those still waiting for 'The nights are long...' to update, I am so sorry, I will get back to it eventually) so I'll need to start writing now to get it done by the end of October.
> 
> I'll get back to this fic once I'm done writing 'Golden Fog' (or I really can't finish it and need to write something else for a while *facepalm*)  
> (And look, the chapter count went up again)
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)


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